


Memento

by Way_of_the_Mouse



Category: Infinity Train (Cartoon)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Redemption, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26411515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Way_of_the_Mouse/pseuds/Way_of_the_Mouse
Summary: AU-Canon Divergence.Simon never traps Grace within the memory tape but instead accidentally finds a way to change Grace’s mind—quite literally. He uses this discovery to keep Grace and the Apex in his life, just how he has always wanted it.Unfortunately, messing around in another person’s mind can lead to disastrous effects, and Simon soon discovers that Grace is not okay. Feeling responsible for Grace’s condition, Simon must find a way to save her before it's too late. And maybe he will find several impetuses to change himself along the way.
Relationships: Simon Laurent & Grace Monroe, Simon Laurent & The Cat, Simon Laurent/Grace Monroe
Comments: 59
Kudos: 57





	1. A Patchwork of Errors

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for hard earned redemption fics, and I felt that Simon is the perfect character for one.  
> He's going to have a difficult time realizing all the things he's done, but hey we are all here for the ride and he's going to meet plenty of people who are unafraid to tell him the truth. 
> 
> Also, Grace might be the one needing saving in this story, but in no way is she a damsel in distress. 
> 
> The Cat is the Cat. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy.

At first Simon does not mean for it to happen. He only wants Grace to listen to him. It is not natural for a human being to change so rapidly in just a few weeks, and it's even more disturbing being the one watching your best friend of eight years transform into a person you have never seen before. If she would only listen to him, she will understand just how far the little robot’s helpers have gone in order to break her to its whim.

Instead, however, Grace only becomes more and more upset. Anything that does not conform to the false ideology the robot has injected into her head is rebuffed. Grace even goes as far as to reject her own memories, and Simon is left with the soul crushing fact that the girl he knows and loves may never be saved.

It hurts. And Simon instinctually does what he always does when something hurts him. He strikes back.

Simon grabs the flimsy edge of the memory right above the null’s face and rips the image of Hazel Lastnameunknown as she had stood on that platform in half. He cuts off the old memory's words in mid speech. Ripping the image in half feels akin to shredding a spiderweb, but the sound of its tearing is terrifyingly organic and is much too similar to the slicing of meat. Before Simon could register what he has done, suddenly the unseen surface underneath him rolls like an angry sea, and Simon is thrown headfirst onto the ground. All light disappears as if shut off by a switch. A high, thin scream whistles past his ears, and now Simon is legitimately frightened.

“Grace!” He stumbles around in the dark on all fours, searching for her.

“Simon!” All of a sudden, Grace is right there beside him. Her familiar arms grab hold of him and pull him close. Unseen lights from high above blink back into existence, and Simon does not know what to think anymore. What just happened?

“Simon, do you know where we are?” Slowly, they pull apart now that the lights are back on.

Simon blinks in surprise. Of all the things that he expects to hear her say, this is not one of them. “We’re inside your head. Grace…” he pauses, “Do you really…not know where we are?” He mentally prepares himself for another fight. It would not be unlike Grace to trick him into thinking she’s confused just so he would unwittingly free her from the tape.

Instead of fighting, however, Grace merely rolls her eyes. “We’re inside of my head? Ha, ha, a likely story. I would like to think that the inside of my head looks way more interesting than this,” she finishes her sentence and kicks up some dust along the barren grey surface. Simon stares at her. Grace continues. “I can imagine this could be the inside of your head though. Perhaps with more wood shavings…and paper. Yep, the inside of your head would definitely smell like paper.”

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Simon watches as Grace starts her normal routine whenever she finds herself inside of an unknown car. _Exactly what is she playing at?_ Simon thinks. Surely, Grace does not believe this half cobbled together semi-amnesia trick will work on him, but Simon lets her play her game. He has the key to her mind, and he is somewhat interested in how far Grace wants to take this charade. It only takes a minute or two before she approaches him again, frustration written all over her face.

“Look, Si. Just sitting there like you're doing is really unhelpful. I know you’re still upset about traveling with a null, but can you at least get up and help me look for Hazel? She’s still a person who needs to be saved even if it’s taking longer than we planned to get back to the Apex.”

There it is—that null is being brought up yet again. “Your null is being put back in its proper place by the old lady, so no. I’m not going back through the train looking for it, and you shouldn’t either. _I_ am going forward until we reach the Apex like _we_ planned weeks ago. It was never supposed to live with us humans, Grace. At one time you knew that,” Simon spits back. Now Grace gawks at him as if he has grown two heads.

Wide eyed with nervousness, she approaches the blond teen. _“O-old lady?_ _Simon_ …” Her concern sounds completely genuine. “I’m starting to believe we may have been in an accident. I woke up here with no clue on how I got here, and I think you did too. There is something wrong about this car. I don’t like it. Come on, let’s get up together and go find the door.”

That’s it. There is so much that Simon could tolerate in one sitting, even from Grace. Ignoring Grace’s pleading eyes, he pulls out the memory device and pushes a side button. **Show me Amelia** , Simon commands, and from all sides projector screens appear and fill with static. If Grace is going to keep lying, he is going to respond with the truth every time to shut her down. 

“Wha-?” Grace walks towards the screen in front of her and touches its smooth surface with a few fingers in pure amazement. “It’s like a movie screen.” Meanwhile, oblivious to her wonder, Simon fights with the button. Something strange is happening. He is giving the command— **Show me Amelia, the old lady, the false conductor** —but every screen still displays static. What _is_ going on?

“Hey, where did you get that weird looking TV remote?”

Simon looks up to see Grace staring at the small black and white device he held within his hand. There was a long pause between them as they eye one another. He watches her face as she gradually puts together every piece to the puzzle—Simon’s silence, the projector screens, the mysterious white device… He watches as her face contorts from confusion to abject disbelief.

“Simon… Are you controlling all of this?”

For Simon, all time stops completely at that question. _Why would she repeat..._? He thinks. _Does she really...?_ And a crazy idea pops into his head. Immediately he runs forward and takes hold of Grace’s arms.

“Grace, you need to tell me right now what’s the last thing you remember. I need everything, the whole truth right now. I think I may know what to do.”

Something in Grace’s anxious expression falters. She has known Simon long enough to smell trouble on the horizon, and it is evident that she is liking the current situation less and less as the minutes tick by. “Fine,” she huffs, “but you are going to explain exactly what’s going on immediately after I’m done.” She visibly attempts to ease her tensions. “I remember…the Color Clock Car. And some null named Roy. I remember we were with Hazel and the n-Tuba, and then-”

Static. After that there is nothing but static. As Grace describes her memories, Simon watches the ill-fated quartet open the door to The Color Clock Car and walk outside. Past Grace and he are strolling ahead of the nulls, but then there is a rumble that shakes the bridge--Amelia’s pulse, Simon recalls--and then… Darkness. Pressing a smaller button on the front of the memory device, Simon confirms it. The end of all of Grace’s memories are at this very moment on that bridge outside of The Color Clock Car. Those tumultuous minutes right before he wheeled the null called Tuba are the final things Grace can recall.

“There, I’ve done my part. Now spill, Socks with Sandals!” Angrily, she jabs one finger an inch away from his chest. _This is classic Grace_ , Simon ponders to himself. She hates not knowing things that she should know. This is more like the Grace she should be and not like the treacherous imposter who had turned away from him these last few weeks. The comfortable familiarity of Grace being Grace calms him.

Simon takes a deep breath. “We’re by ourselves right now. Hazel is on some car that’s gotten sent back behind us on the train. Tuba is dead, and I wheeled her.” He watches as Grace struggles to process this new revelation.

“Simon?” A dozen questions are asked in just one word. She wants to know everything about what happened, and her face crumples as she realizes that she has failed in yet anther recruitment. She turns her head away from him which is about the most vulnerability she typically shows. Grace always takes the loss of another human to the inhospitable train as something personal, especially one so innocent and young as Hazel. Silently Simon presses the side button again and thinks of their first meeting with the nulls inside The Jungle Car.

With his unoccupied arm, he pulls her into a hug. “Everything is going to be okay, Grace. I promise.” Everything is going to be okay, and they both will resume their previous lives before all of the null shenanigans. He stares up at Grace’s first memory of waking up to the gorilla ticking her, and his hands are itching to tear. There was one final thing he must do before everyone would truly be alright.

The world goes dark.


	2. Missing Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace wakes up to find that things have changed...

When Grace comes to, she finds herself in the designated hospital wing of The Mall Car. Limbs heavy and head feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton, she sinks deeper into her pillow and sighs. It hurts to think. The last thing she could remember without too much struggle is her and Simon’s escape from the weird turtle car. _Ugh_ , Grace groaned. _That one was a fiasco_. Looking back, that raid had been one of their worse choices ever made. The dull throb inside her skull seemed to agree. _Yep, that was a pretty bad decision, Grace_.

Still, she can not help but to smile at the haphazard pile of Get Well Soon cards and stick man drawings at the foot of her bed made by dozens of grubby little hands. It feels good to be loved.

Using those warm feelings as fuel, Grace forces herself to fight through the dizziness to sit up and throw off the sheets of her sickbed. She is a busy woman after all, and although she has no way as of yet to confirm, she suspects that she’s been unconscious for several days. Her Apex are all probably worried sick. And Simon too, she imagines with a chuckle. Grace pictures him absolutely pulling his hair out right now having to deal with thirty children without her around. She is all sunshine as she slips on her shoes which had been tucked underneath her sickbed and pats the head of the Apex child who had been assigned to watch over the hospital wing that day. Grace has a kind word and a motivational pick-me-up for every Apex child she sees.

It is time to get back to work. It wouldn’t take long for her to find Simon and get debriefed on everything that has happened during her bout of unconsciousness. Or, if she waits too long, he might even get word she’s awake and find her for the debriefing. Simon is a human stick-in-the-mud when he comes to rules. Then she’d call for a powwow of sorts for the kids to inform them that everything at the Apex is back to normal to stop any continued worrying over her absence.

Little did Grace know how differently her day would end.

* * *

After a much needed long shower and wardrobe change, as predicted, it doesn’t take Grace long to find her first target, who is currently writing at his desk as usual with no clue about the sudden danger he’s in. Tiptoeing quietly Grace pops up behind the sitting blond and covered his eyes with her hands. “Guess who, criminal scum!” she cries.

Sighing, Simon dropped his pencil and leaned back in his chair. “One-One. You’re either really brave or really stupid to come here into the heart of the Apex and challenge us like this.”

“Maybe, but what can a bunch of fleshy, human kids do to me, huh?” Grace leans over his forehead and parts fingers on one hand to reveal one formerly hidden familiar blue eye winking humorously at her. “I’ve already taken out their extremely gorgeous and talented leader. Do you think that you, the second in command, can do better?”

“Extremely gorgeous and talented leader?” Simon questions as he takes her hands in his and lifts them from his eyes. “That isn’t a very analytical observation for a robot.”

“I only call them like I see them.” Grace shrugs.

Simon laughs. “Then you need to get your opticals checked. Check this out.” Grace’s eyes trail in the direction of his pointed finger until…

Oh. _Oh_.

Simon’s right arm. Simon’s entire right arm from palm to shoulder is covered in green glowing numbers. Grace is speechless.

“Simon… How did you…?” Her mind can not contemplate what is happening. What all had gone on while she was out? It had taken both teens eight years of hard work to build up their numbers to reach as far as their forearms, and in less than a week Simon finds a way to double his all the way to his shoulder? _How_? What secret of the train did Simon discover in order to get so powerful in such a short period of time?

Having finally noticed her disquiet, Simon’s proud grin slips from his face. “Oh. Grace, I… Are you upset?”

_Upset_? For a moment Grace is almost livid. How could he surpass her in such a way? They had been neck and neck for years in playful competition, but in the very moment Grace is at her weakest—and her number is down an entire row for who knows what reason, which has never happened before—Simon has her beat, and the victory isn’t even close. Grace’s face reddens before she can stop herself. She has never seen such a high number since…

_The Conductor_. And as soon as her jealousy peaks, Grace feels a sudden shame well up inside her. She really should feel happy for Simon. Simon is her oldest and best friend. If he surpasses her at being the best on the train, should she not be happy for him? Her sentiment seems hollow even to herself.

“I-” Grace struggles to find an appropriate thing to say. “No, I-”

“Grace-” Simon begins. He suddenly sounds very tired.

“What I meant to say is congratulations,” Grace finishes as she holds up a hand in armistice. She even gives him a half smile, one that could fool most of the Apex, but not Simon. He’s known her for far too long. “You’ve finally beat me, Socks with Sandals. You’re leader of the Apex now.” A part of her enjoys watching Simon’s obvious uncertainty in hearing her words. Yes, she might be a bit spiteful, but the thought of losing her position as top dog is going to sting for a while.

“Thanks. I appreciate how ecstatic you are to witness me beat you in something. You really are a true pal.” Simon mumbles before turning his back to her and sitting down to begin writing again.

_Why does he have to be difficult sometimes_? “Look, I said I wasn’t upset-”

“And now you’re lying.” His nose is nearly one with the paper; he doesn’t even look up.

Grace gives up. “Okay, fine. I’m upset, but can you blame me? I wake up to find out that my number has gone down and maybe it’s broken and everything’s changed and I don’t know what’s going on anymore! Wouldn’t you be upset?” Even as she hurls those words aloud, Grace feels guilty. All of the turbulent emotions she feels are legitimate and justified, but Simon has nothing to do with them. Moreover while she was unconscious, he had kept them all fed, watered, alive—it isn’t easy to keep a pack of feral children over thirty strong from killing each other over petty everyday issues—and out of the cold, metal hands of One-One. And, well, like it or not, Simon isn’t the best at interpersonal skills. How can she be angry at him for doing to correct thing and picking up the slack when she isn’t able to do so? That was his job description as second-in-command, right? Still, however hard Grace tries to forcibly muster every part of herself to be enthusiastic for her friend’s newly earned promotion, when the first young face beams up at him with the same reverent gaze that was previously reserved for herself, it’s going to hurt.

There is a long spell of silence between the two.

“Yeah, I think I would be upset too,” Simon replies in a low voice.

Seconds tick by like watching paint dry, and the room’s atmosphere becomes a bit too chilly for Grace’s liking. It’s time to break the ice.

“Alright, allow me to introduce myself,” Graces puts a hand over the cluttered table in Simon’s general direction. “The name is Grace Monroe, Asshole Friend.”

After a pause, Simon takes it. “Charmed. My name is Simon Laurent, Longtime Friend to Asshole Friend.”

“Do you find it difficult sometimes being Longtime Friend to Asshole Friend, Mr. Laurent?” Try as he might, Grace can easily detect the smirk Simon is trying, and failing, to hide.

“Extremely difficult as of late,” he replies.

“Really…” Grace purrs before approaching Simon from behind and throwing her arms around his neck. She happily ignores the warmth radiating from his face. “And how can I make it up to you?”

“Hmm….” Amazingly Simon seems to seriously consider this offer. “Perhaps… A third—no! We can start by your giving up half of your stash of cheesy poofs-”

Half! _What’s next_? _Her right leg and firstborn child_? Refusing to capitulate to such unjust terms, Grace kicks out Simon’s chair from underneath him and begins to attack his helpless body.

“Tr-traitor!” Simon yells, his face laughing and crimson, as he is assaulted from all angles by Grace’s tickling fingers. “Grace! St-stop, stop!” But Grace is not moved by his pleas for mercy.

“You went too far with that last demand. Tsk, tsk, Simon. And not wearing your hoodie just to show off your new numbers? Bad idea. This just gives me more skin to work with.” Despite Grace being shorter and lighter than him, it is going to take Simon a while to break her extremely favorable position on top of him, especially with her attacking him with tickling. She watches the wheels turn in his head as he considers the harsh realities of his situation.

And predictably Simon takes the first breather she allows him to attempt to parley. “Okay, Okay, you win. What do you want?”

“I want to know how you doubled the numbers on your arm.”

Simon stops laughing. “Grace…”

“Don’t ‘Grace’ me. Come on, we’ve done everything together since we first met on the train. We’ve been together forever. Whatever breakthrough you discovered about numbers I need to know about it too so I can get mine up like that, and it’s totally unfair to keep it from the rest of the Apex.”

A shadow of something unknown flashes across his face. “Everything that happened before I got my number up… I don’t think we can replicate that. I don’t want to replicate that.”

The hollowed haunted look on his face is what stops Grace from inquiring further—at least for now. Simon is normally so gung-ho about everyone getting their numbers up that such an one-eighty like not wanting to discuss a breakthrough like his is unnerving. _Just what had happened between the time they fled the turtle car and the moment she woke up in the hospital wing_? The way Simon looks as if he is seconds away from re-experiencing the worst moments of his life… Grace leans down and embraces him, placing her cheek against his. Whatever the cause is, the events are too fresh for Simon, but Grace can be patient. Soon, Grace would drag the truth of him.

“I know that numbers are everything, but I almost lost you, Grace,” Simon says softly. There is a devastating honesty in the thickness in his voice and the smell of salty wetness against her cheek.

“Well, fat chance, that.” Grace lifts her head to look Simon in the eyes. “The train isn’t tough enough to get rid of me.” There is hard light in her gaze.

Simon meets her gaze with one to match. They both smirk in unison.

“Good.”

* * *

  
Grace becomes more and more comfortable living within the new normal as the next few days pass by. In spite of the massive difference between their numbers, Simon never treats her any differently from before. The rest of the Apex, however, takes a little longer to get used to her not having the highest number. That little flash of approval in Simon’s direction whenever she gives a direct order is infuriating— _why oh why did she agree to the rule that the person with the highest number is leader_?— but the impact is softened somewhat with Simon being frequently absent doing dorky Simon things, and it is Grace who deals with the children more often. When she does her usual agenda of spending time with each one, the atmosphere feels almost the same as before.

It is Grace, side by side with Simon, who points the end of her harpoon at the graffitied door to The Mall Car. It is Grace who utters the traditional Apex call to raid. She allows the rest of the Apex to filter past her outstretched hand, screaming and chanting their own battle cries, as they all extend their harpoons into the thick metal walls on the next train car and use their acceleration to leap on to its roof. When Simon with a lopsided grin catches her free hand and challenges her with a race to the target car, she can not help but to respond.

“Oh, you’re on!” Grace laughs to the wind as she unleashes her hooks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, our lovable dysfunctional delinquents are off to raid yet another train car! Let's hope it won't go badly for them this time, eh?  
> Also, I need to write more mall rat fluff. That is all.


	3. The Missing Stair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today on Infinity Train, we are handing out trauma for everyone. 
> 
> Also, One-One's sole password for all train related accounts is ilikturtles. The answer to the billion dollar question will always be turtles.

Simon knows that he’s done the right thing.

“Up by fourteen points? Good job, Marisol!”

Underneath the shower of praise pouring forth from her leaders, the little brunette girl puffs up with pride. “Thanks so much, Grace! I’m just so happy you’re ok!” She lingers in front of Grace a little longer than usual, which earns her a head pat in conciliation before she finally turns and dashes away. And then the next child stumbles forward, dragging what looks to be the cracked half of giant crystal. The throne in which Grace used to sit is vacant—something precarious remains unspoken between them concerning that chair, even though procedure clearly states that Simon is the one who should sit on it. Instead it is tucked away deep within the women’s changing room, and Simon and Grace simply stand side by side.

If pressed very, very firmly, Simon will be the first to— _stubbornly_ —admit that Grace is much more charismatic than he is. He can be a capable leader, but during Grace’s absence in the hospital wing there had been a strange sort of emptiness permeating throughout The Mall Car, as if everyone’s souls had collectively been dimmed. In fact, today’s raid had been orchestrated all for Grace to celebrate her coming back to them. Simon is positive that Grace has figured that out already without ever being told—the car had been a Class C, a car classified as resource heavy but with few nulls present at the time of scouting and little sign of being a puzzle car. A Class C car is definitely not a thing worthwhile enough to bring the entire Apex out of The Mall Car for, but it is safe and allows everyone to interact with Grace freely without overcrowding her too much. Simon can tell that the constant attention and well-wishing after her miraculous recovery is starting to grate on Grace’s nerves after a while. The numbers discovery did not help at all.

Grace doesn’t know how tense everyone had been while she was under. The car had been more akin to a wake rather than a mall with the staggering number of glassy eyes and small hands wiping sniffling noses. She doesn’t know that Simon had been forced to consider a hard possibility of what to do if Grace had not woken up—even unto himself, Simon can not casually arrange the words “Grace” and “die” within the same sentence. The rational solution would be to simply pick up the reigns where Grace left off and carry on. But then he would have had to tell the Apex the truth of what had happened to Grace, that during their journey back to the Apex after the turtle car disaster, Grace had decided to turn her back on all of them and all of their shared Apex ideals after meeting two nulls and one old lady working for the false conductor.

Simon has no clue of how the Apex would react to such news. As he observes Grace sink down to one knee and thank yet another Apex member for another offering, Simon thinks it would go very badly. Innocence has been irreparably broken for him, but not for them. It irks him to withhold the truth—in fact the act of concealment almost makes him like Grace had been, and this thought mildly infuriates him—but Grace is alive and back to her old self and happy, and the rest of the Apex is happy too. For all of their sakes, Simon can keep one secret. However, if Simon could be a tad more honest to himself, he would admit that Grace’s presence filled some void within him as well. During her absence he had missed her smile, her laughter, her warmth; he’d missed her terribly.

Finally done with post-raid procedure, Grace manages to catch Simon’s eye and gives him a slightly pleading look. _Help me out here_ , it begs. Undeterred by at least three polite dismissals and one really, really fake yawn, there are a few children stubbornly hanging around who seem content to cling onto Grace all night. Under different circumstances Simon would find it funny—Grace being the one who is actually getting tired of constant adoration--he is definitely going to save this for juicy banter later. Simon doesn’t know all of the children’s backstories, but he partially remembers that at least one of them who's making a solid attempt to permanently weld himself onto Grace’s side had had a father with some kind or cancer before boarding the train. The kid is most likely triggered. So, Simon steps in to help.

He claps his hands together. “Alright, Apex. It’s time for dismissal. We have gear maintenance at 0900 tomorrow.” As if on cue, a collective sigh makes its rounds around the food court, but no one complains. Grace herself leans back on a hard plastic dining table as the remaining children file out to their various destinations. She turns her head to him.

“ _Gear maintenance_?” she questions. “That is the first thing that pops up into your mind?”

“What? Maintenance is important.” _And is something you don’t do as often as you should, Grace, really_ , Simon thinks to himself, recalling the awful timing of how Grace’s harpoon gear split and snapped in two. “You asked for an out, and I just gave you one. Besides, having fully working equipment that performs optimally at any time is critical-”

“Yeah, yeah.” By the way she is waving her hand at him, Grace’s mind is already on something else. “I’m getting a corndog before I’m going to bed. You wanna come with?” Of course he wants to come with. Simon may not be hungry, but there is a slushy machine nearby that he doesn’t mind partaking from. “And thanks by the way, for helping out back there. It’s getting harder to find ways to get out hugging the same kid three times over without hurting anybody’s feelings.”

“You mean, you’re getting tired of your adoring fans?” Simon snickers at her false look of reproach. When she throws one, two soft jabs to his upper arm in lighthearted retaliation, he pretends to hold his left arm in pain.

“Do I smell jealousy, dear Simon?” Her smile shows teeth.

“Not all, dearest Grace,” he quips as he turns his back to her and uses two fingers to fill his slushy cup with two flavors at the same time. “I think you’re smelling those funky looking corndogs.” He fills his cup, secures the lid on tight, and spins around to see- AH! “WHA-?” All he can see is a terrifying combination of a stark white face with a blush of pink where the nose should be. “What the-?”

“Ha ha! Oh wow…” His outburst is interrupted by Grace chortling to herself as she lifts up that flat white face, which happens to be a rather unsettling-looking mask, to reveal her familiar brown one. “So it is intimidating. Thanks.” She slips off the mask completely and admires it for a moment.

“Jesus, Grace! What was that?” Damn it, he almost spilled his drink.

“That was a gift from that Charlie kid. He said he had found it ages ago but had forgotten about until I mentioned something today about how I missed having a mask,” explains Grace while giving the mask another once over. “I think it’s porcelain or something very similar, so not very durable for raiding, but it’s pretty cool, you know.”

Simon doesn’t find it pretty cool. The mask reminds him oddly of that tentacle creature he had seen in her memories that had attacked Grace all those years ago. He briefly wonders if she even is aware of the similarity.

“Simon?”

“Huh?” Simon hasn’t yet realized that he’s been eyeballing that mask for a full minute.

“You’re staring at it.” She cocks her head to one side. “You have something against this mask?” Her question sounds laid-back, but Simon hears something searching in her tone. The question could be entirely innocent, but Grace is naturally observant. _Does she notice how cagey he’s been recently?_

“Eh heh…” At times Simon behaves very well under pressure. This is not one of those times. He rubs the back of his head in embarrassment and mentally kicks himself for almost believing there was a connection between Grace’s memory and her choice in masks. “I… It’s just- You scared me, that’s all…”

“Uh huh… Alright…” She rolls her eyes. “Oh great Apex leader, frightened over a hunk of porcelain…” Unbeknownst to Grace—and Simon himself really— an anxious Simon sounds much the same as an embarrassed Simon, and therefore his gaff slips beneath Grace’s notice. Instead of growing suspicious, she gives him another playful punch on the arm and runs off to get her corndog while Simon stands there and tries to catch his breath.

His unoccupied hand drops down. _Why is he so-?_ Suddenly he hears the soft sound of something quick and unknown slithering by him, and Simon nearly jumps once again out of his skin.

“Hi, Simon.” He looks down to see a small blond, another member of the Apex, filling a slushy cup with blueberry flavor and staring up at him oddly. Simon tries his best to squash how flustered he feels and puts forth his most calm leader face. _Way to inspire confidence_ , Simon, he scolds himself. _Getting worked up over nothing in the middle of your own base…_ “Bye, Simon.” The boy squeezes by him and walks away after filling his cup for the night. Simon groans as he watches him leave. Perhaps an early bedtime is a good idea. His nerves are deteriorating at such a rapid pace that he’s gotten jumpy over eleven year olds. With a burning red face, he sits down and slurps at his slushy.

Inside his own head he repeats the same mantra. _Grace is happy, and the Apex is happy, he is happy…_ So why does his brain continuously finds the most implausible things to worry about? He knows that Grace remembers nothing about their ill-fated journey with the nulls, but there is a bee in his bonnet that occasionally wonders what if? _What if Grace starts to remember somehow?_ The bee had first deposited that unwelcome thought within him not long after Grace awoke, and like a slow moving avalanche it has only grown larger and more dangerous over time. After all, he had been right before to suspect Grace’s odd behavior way back even before they had met the old lady. Yes, she is back to her normal old self, but that Grace she had become in the end, the one he had no longer recognized, had also started out as the old Grace as well. Simon drains the liquid out of his cup, leaving the remaining shaved ice behind.

This isn’t how their relationship should be at all, but Simon regretfully understands that he can not trust Grace like he did before. She is almost everything he wishes her to be, except possibly as more than friends. He cannot allow himself to get closer to her, but he can’t pull away either. There is just too much history between them, eight years of adventures and laughter and near death experiences and warmth and leadership and cuddling underneath stolen blankets in the night. Simon can barely remember the sound of his own mother’s voice, but he can still feel the tug of Grace’s fingers on his ponytail from this morning, or whatever constitutes as morning on this blasted train.

Simon slumps forward and places his chin on his hands. _Oh, Grace…_ He wishes that she’d come back already with her corndog so they can leave, and he can go to bed and attempt to bury these feelings for another day. Simon sighs again just as another thought strikes him. _Where is Grace, by the way?_ The blond lifts his head from his hand and looks around, but this section of the food court seems to be deserted.

“Grace!” Simon yells. There isn’t a peep in response. _Come on_ , he thinks, _those corndogs aren’t that good_. Grumbling, Simon stands up and scratches his side while yawning.

“Graaace!” He has half a mind to round the next corner and head over to the corndog stand and complain but abruptly decides not to. Simon is tired, and he decides that would be a waste of too much energy. Grace Monroe has dominated his mind for long enough today. Instead, Simon trashes his cup and takes a left out of the food court entirely. Grace may give him hell tomorrow about leaving her behind at the food court, but in truth she’s ditched him first.

Somewhat vindicated at the thought of Grace being annoyed, Simon finds sleep very easily as he climbs into his hammock for the night. It doesn’t last very long.

* * *

Grace dreams of small, warm round things. _Small green round things—or are they small green disk things_? There is a name for these; for some odd reason she can’t recall it.

Grace doesn’t dream very often, or perhaps not often since she boarded the train all those years ago. With the number of fantastic situations in which she finds herself on a daily basis, Grace figures that her human imagination decided that it couldn’t compete and had long since packed up and left. It’s a surprise that she finds herself dreaming now. She has to be dreaming. The disk green round things have faces. They clamber around her and clamor for her attention— _you’re missing something Grace!_ — but Grace banishes them with a single hand held up in dismissal. She’s not going to be bothered by small children in her own dream. She has enough of that in real life.

**Disk round green things?** **You don’t remember anything, Grace?**

_And as expected, the magnificent leader of the Apex gives a bow after another stupendous performance-_

**Perhaps you do remember it. You’re going to keep cycling though your memories until you do.**

_Grace is eight years old. She remembers breaking out of the hold of her latest au pair and running out into the stone courtyard to scare away a flock of birds. She learns how to say the word_ arrivederci _that day._

_“…and how do you kids actually know that was the real conductor?” the redhead smugly interjects. She’s quite a bit older than either Grace or Simon with a number that’s more than quadruple either of theirs as well. The redhead says that there is no rhyme nor reason for the train. Every person is on board because they are. Grace doesn’t like this nihilistic explanation; she knows what she’s seen that day in The Pumpkin Car. And when she creeps over to Simon’s sleeping spot that night to discuss it, she is surprised to find that he agrees with her. Together they slip off into the dark. One can’t trust adults; they think they know everything._

_Large violet…instruments?_ One shouldn’t think of them as people.

_Grace is almost sixteen, and she catches a glimpse of herself in a full sized mirror for the first time in years. The reflection she sees makes her emit a little gasp out loud, and she reflexively covers her mouth with her hand even though no one else is in range to overhear. Slowly she creeps closer to the mirror’s surface. Grace is amazed; Grace is terrified. It’s impossible, but at the first glance of herself she had truly thought she’d seen her mother on the other side of the glass. And for the first in a long, long while, she feels a burning pang of grief—_

“Grace!” A new voice lifts Grace out of older, cloudier memories and into much more recent ones.

_You really should bring back one for Simon. He’s just going to get hungry in the middle of the night as per usual…_

_Grace smiles. “I read it in a book once.”_

**You’re not going to remember, are you?**

_What does one call green disk round things?_ Come on, the answer is on the tip of her tongue…

“Grace, wake up… Please…”

_Stop bothering me, already… I’m totally going to read your book._

_Violent violet instruments can be mothers too. Why is her face wet?_

**You’re getting closer.**

“Grace!”

* * *

Grace’s eyes blink open. _Ugh_! And then she shuts them again when the overhead lights immediately trigger a raging headache. A single focused attempt to rise up upon one shoulder is stopped by many hands.

“Don’t get up!” “You may be injured!” “Please be okay!” If Grace had been in a less dire state of affairs, she might have laughed at that moment—somehow she’s gotten the attention of thirty plus children all directed solely at her. Her Apex are a stubborn bunch; it’s useless to resist.

“Are you okay?” Grace recognizes that voice. She opens her mouth to reply but then decides against it. Her tongue feels too heavy to be properly trusted. The atmosphere is tense; everyone is obviously on edge—and Grace also is slowly starting to become alarmed— _Disk round green things?_ —but still she has a responsibility to everyone present. She cannot allow herself to freak out. “Can you open your eyes?”

_Can you turn down the brightness?_ Grace wants to snap, but her headache is suddenly gone as quickly as it came. She might as well get this over with. Experimentally Grace opens one eye and then the other, fully prepared for anything, but surprisingly nothing happens. What she does see is a mishmash of wet, anxious faces and glassy eyes. _Ah, let her guess. She’s blacked out again, hasn’t she?_

“Give her some space!” There is the sound of many small feet shuffling backwards, and Simon holds up a hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

But Grace is already pushing away his upheld hand and sitting up. Simon means well, she knows, but if Grace allows him to start down this path now, she’s going to be subjected to every medical checkup known to mankind—or rather Simon-kind. And everyone is watching. The longer she remains here sitting on the hard tile, the more embarrassed she becomes. “I’m..fine,” Grace manages to retort, and she takes a second to thank whoever is listening to her prayers that her voice sounds strong. “I’m fine.” _Stabilize the situation now. Ask questions after_. Neither Simon nor the children seem convinced, but Grace can work on that. She steadies herself with one hand on the wall behind her, ignoring outside cries of protest—a small voice tells her that it is important to be seen standing up under her own power sans help—and then she remembers… That’s right. She’s still in the food court. How long has she been here?

Grace opens her mouth to ask, but once again thinks otherwise. Her brain is almost back to a hundred percent normal functioning capacity, and she pushes all crazed thoughts of violet instruments and green disk things aside. Now is not the time. She will need to converse with Simon on this—firstly to wring out any information they can, and secondly to formulate some plan to keep the rest of the Apex from worrying. Her father had once quoted: “Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence.” They’re going to have a heck of a time attempting to smooth this one over…

Thankfully Simon does not ask anymore questions. He knows her well enough to have a decent idea of what she’s thinking, hopefully. His face is shadowed, but his hand is outstretched. That’s good; Grace doesn’t put much faith in her walking abilities either. She raises the other hand not currently clinging to the wall—only to find some kind of obstruction-

“Grace, what is that?” Suddenly the entire world consists of only Simon, Grace, and one crumpled and stained white paper bag partially crushed in her left hand.

“That…was your corndog,” Grace finds herself muttering before she even realizes that she’s speaking. “And mine too. I was going to get one for myself, but then I…” _He’s just going to get hungry in the middle of the night as per usual…_ Momentarily stunned, Grace lets the grubby little bag drop to the floor. _Her hand is sore. Just how long has she been clutching that thing?_ Grace tries not to relay the panic she feels. Luckily, only Simon notices it.

“I think Grace needs to rest, Apex… Whatever has happened, it doesn’t do any good to crowd her like this…”

Grace is suddenly conflicted. Simon is giving her an out, bless him, but he’s also talking about her in third person terms as if she’s not right there in front of him, dammit. The embarrassment she’s been wrestling with resurfaces in double time. The current scene she pictures quite plainly. Simon, with his sure footing and impressive number looks much more like leadership material than she does right now, and Simon actually sounds commanding here. Damn it, he’s getting better. How awful to think of something so inconsequential in a time like this, but Grace is not one to be beaten so easily in the contest of relevance. She will not allow herself to be known as the weaker one after this.

Grace takes Simon’s outstretched hand with her sore one and tacks on an appropriately wan smile. “I think Simon may be right this time… I probably didn’t allow myself to rest enough from last time. I’m sorry, guys.” Her voice is apologetic. “Can you forgive me?” Grace knows that a kid can endure a lot of scary things if one makes certain that events turn out good in the end. She’s learned much from leading them. Most of them are frightened and just need an encouraging word or two to take the edge off.

There is a slow trickle of “I forgive you!” and “Please don’t do it again.” from some of them. It’s not what Grace wants or expects, but realistically tonight—or morning or whatever—won’t be the end of their worrying. It’s a start.

Grace turns to Simon, but before she speaks, something alarming catches the corner of her eye. Little does Grace realize that six hours ago she had performed the exact same action. Grace had walked over and selected two of the least diseased looking corndogs present and had shoved them into a long white bag and then she had looked up and- _What was that?_ She feels a sensation akin to when one runs down a flight of stairs but in the process misses a single step—that sinking feeling when one’s foot meets air instead of solid surface. There should be a memory to recall… _Small green round things_ … Her hand squeezes Simon’s in a sudden vice-like grip.

“Gah! Gra-!” Simon starts, visibly confused, but he is stunned into silence by her terrifyingly blank face.

“Simon. What is the name for that?” Grace’s voice sounds distant to her own ears. If she was more aware of herself and the shakiness of her own voice, then she would feel grateful that all of the Apex have already left the scene.

The blond frowns. “That’s a…er…a wall?”

That answer was so counterproductive that it very nearly causes Grace to snap out of her reverie—almost— _she knows what a wall is, doofus_. _Disk round green things_. Her eyes bore into a certain section of the green and grey tiled wall. The thing stares back at her with a stylized smile etched in thick black lines. It stands there, all green and scaly on two hind legs, somehow balancing one ridiculously oversized corndog in one hand and a round, heavy shell on its back…

Following the direction in which her eyes are staring, Simon at last understands what Grace has been trying to ask.“That’s Turtle Dog,” he replies. “It’s a just stupid mascot for the hotdog and corndog stand. Don’t know why it has such a dumb name, but you’ve come here many times-” All of a sudden, he stops talking. _You’ve come here many times, but not in the last week or so, not since before…_ His eyes widen in rapid realization.

“A turt-” Like water though a sieve, the word escapes Grace before she’s even registered it. _A turtle. A round green animal, thing, pers-_

Simon manages to catch her before she slumps forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my most experimental chapter yet. It may not seem like it, but we've crested the first drop of the roller coaster. The first drop is always a doozy. 
> 
> If you're still confused about anything, feel free to ask questions. Italics indicate memories and thoughts, and bold indicates Grace's subconscious. Grace strikes me as a character who has a very strong sense of self. It won't be wiped out so easily. 
> 
> Also my poor babies the Apex children get a healthy dose of trauma this chapter. Simon is a mood; Grace freaks out from the sight of turtles; they just got to deal with it.


	4. A House Built Upon Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pair of teenagers are slowly breaking down, and no, this is not your typical Thursday night.

_“Hey Grace, we’re…friends…right?” Simon asks as he lies crosslegged with his back to the ground, body partially hidden in sweet-smelling grass. He guesses that this is a right time to ask; it’s been a month since the cockroach monster incident—or what he thinks is a month—it is difficult to keep track of time when there is no set day or night or seasons. Simon has known one or two people whom he could possibly say was a friend before the train, but never had it taken such a long time for them to declare themselves as such, and never has he spent so much time alone with them as he has with Grace._

_He briefly wonders if the true reason why is because Grace is a girl. Girls are known to do things bizarrely. It doesn’t hurt to ask._

_“Yeah, of course we are,” Grace replies, sitting up. Her tone confirms this statement as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “We’ve been hanging out for a while. We’re practically best friends.”_

Best friends… That’s nice. _“Okay,” whispers Simon. He has had a friend or two, but until now he hasn’t been considered best friend material by anyone. Simon hopes he doesn’t disappoint._

_“Yep, and best friends stick together, you know. Forever and ever.”_

_..._

_“This is Simon. He’s my second-in-command. I trust him with my life.”_

* * *

_“I trust Simon with my life.”_

Simon gives in to panic. He temporarily forgets that he is Simon, Apex Leader, and if his cry of acute desperation brings back a few children who had been hanging around in hopes of catching a glimpse of Grace all better again, Simon doesn’t notice. He calls her name, but Grace is somewhere he cannot reach. He manages to catch her using his chest and unoccupied arm. Grace’s nose digs painfully into his collarbone, and Simon’s mind starts wondering about suffocation— _she has to be feeling her nose slowly being crushed, right? Why won’t she move?_ Her sudden dead weight shatters his balance, and Simon’s backside smashes against the Turtle Dog counter under their combined load. _No, no, this can not be happening…_

“Grace! Grace, snap out of it!” The awkward angle into which they’ve fallen is making it difficult for him to straighten up. _Damn it, she's heavy..._ He needs his other hand to balance himself. Simon wiggles his elbow and his fingers in an attempt to free his hand out of Grace’s death grip. _Come on… Come on…_

His eye catches a peek of that stupid mascot bolted to the wall, and suddenly Simon’s heart is struck by _déjà vu_ — Turtles! Turtles… Hazel… that old lady…

_“A lot of turtles, too many turtles, a number of turtles that makes you think-”_

The pitter patter of approaching feet. “Simon?”

Simon blinks back into reality. Gradually he realizes that he is shaking, that his eyes are blurry and that his face is wet. There is a quiver of uncertainty in that young voice—the trembling squeak of a child seeing one of her leaders in the midst of despair while holding the other. _This must look really, really bad_ , Simon thinks. He cannot hide his tears or Grace’s current state. Simon feels the gravity of so many eyes falling upon him. He is not like Grace. Simon has never been able to really hide what he thinks or how he feels; he can only pull himself together as much as he can. The blond takes a deep breath and fights the overwhelming sound of his own heartbeat drumming in his ears.

“Prepare a fresh bed in the hospital wing…” Simon hears himself say. There is a pause as both the silence and the tension mounts; two or three of the Apex are left standing, eyeing Grace’s now limp body as Simon finally has enough momentum to shift her from right chest to opposite arm. “Now,” Simon finishes in a low voice—today’s apprehension has hardened him—and finally the remaining scatter.

Delivering Grace to the hospital wing is the most logical action to take, but deep inside himself, Simon is beginning to believe this action will be a simple bandaid to a much more serious problem. He can feel Grace’s warmth, the rise and fall of her breathing, but for all purposes she might as well be a giant sack of flour. There is only one other time had she been in a state like this… _Déjà vu,_ Simon. He prepares to squat low and lift her up into a fireman’s carry. _Déjà vu_. The atmosphere is suddenly filled with a terrible sort of mockery; it wasn’t fair. _It isn't fair..._ For all that he wants to have her, it seems he is destined to somehow lose her.

It is now when they are all alone that grief truly strikes him—he had just gotten Grace back and things had been settling down to normal. That is all he had wanted, just a continuation of the life he shared with her, the only life he can see himself living on the train. Was it wrong to strive for happiness? Even Grace is happier in one week post memory wipe than she had been in all their weeks of travel with the nulls and the old lady. No confusion, no tears, just the Apex, and raids, and her and him, as it should be. _If only_ … Simon holds her closer. If only, it were guaranteed this peace can last.

Simon concludes he should have never trusted The Cat. He had been out of options— first his and Grace’s once close relationship becomes strained; then all of a sudden she spends all of her time catering to the null and bending all of their actions to its wishes; she stops communicating with him, full stop, and they have always had open communication with each other; they had never kept a single thing from each other. Thinking back, he should have known that desperation would lead to disaster. Simon had had so many questions, but no one to turn to for answers. _Why was Grace behaving so strangely? Why was her number malfunctioning? Who was the old lady and how did she get so powerful to have numbers all the way to her neck?_ There was no other person to turn to, in the end.

Simon is not suspicious enough to believe that the Cat would do this on purpose, but she and Grace are enemies well-established… If there is the slightest chance—no, a sudden opportunity, Simon knows well how Samantha calculates risk to beings other than herself—if she could get rid of an enemy and fulfill Simon’s request at the same time, she would do it. That is too tempting for a gambler like her to pass up—a Grace handicapped is a Grace not leading raids on her various black market operations—and it is Grace who takes the lead on all Cat-related cars. Simon has long since made it a goal to avoid any possibility of every crossing paths with the Cat ever again.

Simon pictures the Cat warming her white coat by the fire, smiling to herself as she resumes her reading, knowing that Simon might just be stupid enough to use that device on Grace… No. He shakes his head for that is a thought too callous to be associated with her—the Cat may be a selfish pathological liar and a coward who could leave a ten year old child to die, but—but it is the only thing that could make sense… Right? _But why else would the Cat give him such a thing?_ Simon could not have known a catastrophe like this could happen—he had felt like he had been the only person in this whole journey who had been in the dark. He had just wanted answers. He had not meant for Grace to come to any harm. 

_Déjà vu,_ Simon.

“!” Calloused fingers grip Simon’s arm. The squeeze shakes Simon out of his thoughts, and he looks down to see Grace, now conscious again. Glistening droplets of sweat, or possibly tears sparkle across her cheeks and she is almost hyperventilating, but her brown eyes are sharp. Her other hand entangles itself into the back of his shirt, and between the two she uses Simon like an anchor to steady herself. _Grace!_

All other worries dissipate like smoke into the wind, and Simon wants to embrace her, to ask if she is alright, but Grace turns away from him. However, before she does, Simon snatches a glimpse of her face—confusion, shame—expressions that seem alien on so familiar a face. Simon is an expert on the subject of Grace, but he has now entered uncharted ground. He doesn’t know what she is thinking. The junction between his shoulder and collarbone where her head rests grows damp, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

“What is happening?” Grace’s voice is soft, though partially muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

“I don’t know,” Simon answers. The words slides out of him before he could stop himself. “Just don’t—don’t look at the wall. There is something there, I think, that triggers this.” Grace stiffens at these words, and for a long horrible moment Simon assumes that she had done just the opposite and dared to take a peek at the turtle on the wall, but no…she is thinking, frowning and thinking, long and hard.

“Simon…” She lifts her head to peer up at him.

“Yes?”

Grace’s leg wobbles as she removes one hand from his upper arm and cups it against the stubble dusting the side of his jaw. Simon shudders involuntarily at the contact— _why must he always react in this way? Surely she must know by now_ —and when he opens his eyes again, Grace is staring at him. Her beautiful brown eyes swallow him whole; there is an honest, desperate plea within them. And at that exact moment in time, Simon knows that the question Grace is going to ask next is going to be the one that dooms him. He just knows.

“You will tell me everything that happened after the-” Grace startles herself as she casually forgets the word “turtle” again, “weird car, won’t you? Please… I have to know.” _So I can fix this_ … Her expression is the look of one who is starting to realize that she has lost control over her life—and she is afraid. It is not often that Grace allows herself to be vulnerable.

_“…Best friends stick together, you know. Forever and ever.”_

_“This is Simon… I trust him with my life.”_

Simon is the mouse who sees the kill bar vibrating above him but decides to reach for the cheese anyway. He has no idea what he is doing or how anything will turn out, but in that second he realizes that he cares for Grace too much to leave her without answers. In that moment Simon places her above himself. His reply comes easily. “Of course. Anytime you want. We’re a team, Grace.”

Grace wavers for just a second and bites her bottom lip, but then she smiles, and there is something so supremely radiant about her smile through the tears that Simon grins back. “And we always will be, huh?” she adds.

In the end, Grace decides not to spend the rest of the night in the hospital wing. As usual she shoots down every argument Simon has against this foolhardy idea— _Why would she need someone to watch over her? It would be a waste since she can barely keep her eyes open; for some reason she feels as if she can sleep halfway through until the next day_ —however she doesn’t decline his notion of walking her to her living quarters at least. For all of her bravado, even Grace seems hesitant to the idea of waking up on the ground again. She doesn’t remember her first fall at all, or even their conversation before entering the food court hours earlier, and when told about this, Grace attempts to make a good show of shrugging it off, but the tightness of her jaw and the aversion of her eyes demonstrates otherwise.

They stop at her door, or what used to be the storefront of Big Box Brian’s Furniture Liquidators. Grace still brags occasionally that she has the decadent option of sleeping in a room stylized as a mountainside villa or seaside bungalow every night.

“So…” Grace lingers before entering, toying with the automated glass doors. To anyone else she might have appeared as if she was casually making conversation, but Simon knows she is anxious. Grace doesn’t want to be left alone, despite her complaints earlier about being overly coddled, but her nature prevents her from asking directly. Unfortunately for Grace, Simon has already decided how he shall spent the remainder of his evening twenty minutes ago, and it doesn’t involve making up some excuse to spend more time with her.

“So…” repeats Simon. “You think you’re going to be ok?” His back leg is jittering with impatience.

Grace immediately stops and stares at Simon in surprise. “Um, sure…. Of course.” Her accompanying smile is weak, and momentarily she opens her mouth to add something but ultimately decides against it. The amount of times that Simon has not backed her up or went along with her idea during their entire time together Grace can count on one hand—an event so rare that it’s practically unnerving to witness. She takes a step back to observe Simon, really observe him, and notes all the recent changes she sees—the more neatly combed hair, the atrociously large number climbing his arm, the absence of that ratty white hoody she had poked at him about in private amongst other things… Some unidentified portion of Grace’s subconscious comments to itself that things—he, she, they— are changing far too quickly for her liking.

“Okay… Alright. Goodnight.” Simon turns to leave.

“Goodnight,” Grace calls after him. She remains in the doorway, glass doors continuously opening and closing, for a long time after he leaves, but Simon never sees.

* * *

A long time ago two children made the pledge to stick together, forever, and never to leave the other behind—this still means something to Simon.

_I trust Simon with my life._

Whenever Grace declares that statement to a potential Apex inductee, Simon always feels a flash of pride that he could be that person to her, that one person in the entire world whom Grace trusts the most. There is no chance that Simon would fail her now, now when his oldest and best friend needs him more than ever.

Simon packs quickly and carefully, heavier objects on bottom, lighter, more delicate things on top, enough nonperishable food to sustain him for at least two weeks. One never knows when transversing the train what to expect. Simon can’t predict how long he would be gone as his quarry is a particularly sly one, but he gives himself a month to get the job done. Any longer and the Apex would start to think him dead. They would still have Grace, but… Grace’s condition is an unknown; they might not have Grace for long. Simon hooks his number tracker onto a belt loop and pats it for good measure.

The truth is that Grace has asked him for answers; however, Simon can only give a partial explanation—or confession, rather. There is only one being on the train who will be able to deliver a true explanation, the one who gave him the damned memory tape in the first place, the only one responsible for this entire mess. Grace has asked him for answers, but Simon cannot even start until he has an answer for her condition. The only thing he can do is to track down the one responsible and drag her back to face judgment by her shiny, white coat.

It is time to track down the Cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day both Simon and Grace are going to catch those pesky people who are threatening to ruin their lives and teach them a lesson!
> 
> So, yes Grace's thoughts in chapter two are finally being said. Note that in chapter two she could still think the word "turtle."  
> And now Simon is off the catch the pesky person responsible for all of this mess--hopefully. The responsible party might not entirely be who he thinks it is.


	5. L'enfant Terrible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon starts on his quest to find the Cat in order to save Grace.  
> Things go as well as one might expect.

“Oh no! I am just a humble weary traveler who just so happens to have a lot of junk weighing me down…” By now, half of the denizens inside the bar are looking strangely at the oddly dressed newcomer. Many eyes follow every movement when he pulls out a shiny filigreed bauble and makes a good show of rolling it on top of the crusty old brick of the counter. “Whatever shall I do with this random object I found on the ground, and I have no idea what it even does? Who would take such useless junk off my hands?”

This is the part where Grace would whisper into his ear that she’s nominating him for the Razzie awards and Simon would retort that if she was so much better at him in everything then why didn’t she lead with the acting. Still, most nulls aren’t too intelligent. Out of the corner of one eye, Simon observes three or four of them finish their drinks and slink out a side door. If they’re either leaving to inform someone higher up that he’s the perfect mark or setting him up to be mugged along a dark alleyway, Simon is ready for them. It’s been a while since he’s experienced any action—and no, that Class C raid a few days back did _not_ count.

On this never-ending train, there is only one surefire way to attract the attention of a _personnage_ such as the Cat. A normal passenger or null would never know what happens within a car that is right next door or hundred or even a thousand cars away, but somehow the Cat will, or will at least always learn about it in the end. Simon cannot explain how she does it—always managing to show her snout at the most opportune time—she just does. Looking down at the palm of his hand, Simon rolls the little gold and ivory ball around. This sphere is one of the few remaining objects he had retained from that dark time before Grace—Simon had had this in his pockets that fateful day; the Cat had asked him to hold it for her—and in spite of all the years which have passed by, Simon doubts that she has forgotten about it. After all, the Cat is collecting again; she needs something, many, many somethings to fill those rooms.

“Heya, one chocolate milkshake for the boy in black, eh?” The null behind the counter is a massive red ball of wiry hair with intimidating yellow eyes. _But no hairnet_ , Simon notes, and if he slurps up as little as a single long red strand in his shake, there is going to be murder. Still, Simon takes it and starts to drink. Before the null prods him about payment, he produces a dented spork from a hidden pocket and slides it across the counter.

In The Black Market Car, the only way to obtain anything is to barter, and Simon has a fanny pack full of useless objects in which to trade.The red null and Simon stare at each other for quite a few moments before it gives a noncommittal shrug of its invisible shoulders and swipes the utensil off the counter for safekeeping.

Simon sighs as he hunches over his barstool, blowing bubbles into his milkshake. Today happens to be his second day away from the Apex, away from home. He isn’t anticipating the prospect of an entire month sleeping in the rough, but if he must… Ever since he had boarded the train all those years ago, Simon has consistently spent the night sleeping near another person—and if he had spent half the night awake with his pack underneath his head, staring up at the blank swirling sky of The Black Market Car and strongly wishing to hear Grace’s usual soft breathing nearby or random snippets of childish conversation outside his room back in The Mall Car, it only sharpens his resolve. All of their futures may depend upon-

“-of all the rotten-” Simon nearly topples off of his stool. _That voice_! His head spins around to peer through an open doorway.

There! Simon sees a flash of a familiar greying brunette braid swishing through the crowd before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. Momentarily he is stunned. This makes twice in one month that this woman has crossed paths with Simon; this cannot be coincidence. Without much further debate, Simon ditches the milkshake bar behind and darts out into the street.

“-all gone pear-shaped, as expected. _Really_ Amelia, you make one attempt at being c-” The woman who had claimed to be the false conductor…the old lady… Amelia… is a tricky customer to follow. Simon can only catch snippets of her monologuing to herself and occasionally to some beat-up old microphone, while trying to remain inconspicuous and at least three people lengths away at all times. He really should be looking for the Cat; however, learning more about Amelia is too valuable to pass up.

_How does she behave when not treating other passengers like old gum stuck to the bottom of her boots? Where does she obtain the parts to create such cool tech—yes, even Simon could admit to himself that he had found her sound wave thingy pretty cool, even though it had knocked him flat on his back—and if he watched her buy the parts, could he somehow engineer something similar for himself?_ The thought of breaking down Amelia’s invention, understanding it, and then rebuilding it into something greater is pleasing to him, especially if the old lady finds out about it somehow—doubly if his upgrade beats hers.

Amelia makes her rounds as if she’s gone grocery shopping: a pair of wire clippers here, a box of glowing bulbatteries most likely smuggled out of The Energy Car there, two dozen eggs from a notably ominous denizen that looks suspiciously like a mutated chicken underneath its ragged cloak… In all, her shopping is very mundane, though Simon rather quickly notices that she never “pays” for any goods she receives, violating the general bartering rule of The Black Market Car. He wonders if her special connection to One-One grants her all of these special perks. _So many questions…_ Her astronomically high number, that super cool tech; Amelia must know so much about the train. Simon doesn’t buy her statement that she wants to one day get off the train; that has to be One-One propaganda. Just look at her, she has free reign to do whatever she wants, to go wherever she wants—no one besides the little robot she works for could maybe stop her; why would she want to leave this all behind and go back to the disappointing real world?

When Amelia approaches yet another grimy market booth, Simon doesn’t think much of it. However, when the null running it knocks over the majority of his wares in an attempt to escape and Amelia merely scoffs and cuts off his getaway with a wall of sound, his attention is piqued. Simon kneels behind a nearby barrel and watches the show.

“You have fifteen seconds to explain why an anomaly is present within this car.” Amelia extends one arm holding the recording device and flicks it on. “Explain.”

“Eh, heh, I gotsss no clue…” The null is sweating, eyes darting here and there searching for an out, but the crowd surrounding them has forgotten the scuffle already. Such is life in The Black Market Car.

“Nine seconds.”

“H-hey now, it’sss not like I control what comesss into thisss place!”

Amelia frowns. “Perhaps you personally don’t, but I have reason to believe that the organization in which you associate yourself does. Or why else would I be speaking to you?”

The null opens his scaly mouth, then closes it, then opens it again.

“Look, I don’t have the time to play twenty questions with you. We made an agreement some time back that you or your organization will bring me any object that enters your domain and triggers one of my sensors, and in turn, I don’t send your car into quarantine. There is an object not created by the current conductor residing within this car. As talented as I may be, I do not have the time to search the entirety of or interview everyone within this car to find it-”

_Wait! Quarantine!?_ Simon’s mind is racing. _Doesn’t that mean they are all going to get sent to the back of the train?_ He’s going to die of old age before he finds The Mall Car again. _Wait! Grace…_

“-ation has ten minutes to find this object and deliver it to me. Otherwise, I shall be forced to handle this car like I do all cars that are contaminated, and if I can be honest with you, I don’t want to do that. This place is the only location on the train where I can find quality ingredients with so little hassle, and believe me, you _can’t_ imagine the lengths I am forced to endure to acquire decent eggs in The Chicken Car. They are so abominably picky-”

Simon is so engrossed in Amelia’s monologue that he nearly misses long hairy fingers snaking their way into his back pocket. It is only when he senses something heavy being gently lifted that he turns his head to find a small green monkey wearing a vest and top hat holding the filigreed orb he’d been fooling around with previously. _Hold on, had it been present at the bar earlier?_ The thing smiles cheekily at Simon before bounding off into the street.

“Hey, stop!” Simon yells, before falling forward and knocking over and crushing the barrel which he had been hiding behind. A few heads turn to watch the sudden commotion, including-

“You.” Amelia.

Simon is flat on his back again, and Amelia, the old lady, is looking down at him similarly as to how one glares at a stained sheet after three washings. _How has she recognized him so quickly?_ Simon has borrowed one of Grace’s ideas for this undercover expedition; he is, supposedly, incognito, going as far to borrow Grace’s cloak—he knows Grace well enough that he’s going to have one foot in the fire already when he returns with the Cat. Piling on the crime of taking things without asking, well, one can’t get even more dead, right?—and scrubbing his face to remove the Apex sine. The latter had been hard to do. His face feels uncomfortably naked without it, but the nulls would freak if they had seen him enter this car. It couldn’t be helped.

Amelia’s lips smooth into a hard, thin line. “What are you doing here eavesdropping to-” But Simon doesn’t wait for her to finish. His hands reach to grasp those well-worn grooves of the handles of his harpoon gear and activates his hooks. “Oh, no you-! _Ugh_!”

Simon is already two stories in the air before she do anything. His heart is beating five hundred times a minute, and as Amelia and scene disappears behind him in a swirl of color, he lands crouching smoothly on a crumbling brick wall, darkened with age. Hurriedly he switches on his gravity boots and leaps onto another to make sure he’s out of her line of sight.

_Damn it, he’s lost the ball thing and gotten himself caught by the false conductor lady in the span of ten minutes. Nice going there, Simon. What else does he have on him to tempt the Cat? His gear? Another toy soldier?_

Simon sighs. He briefly considers turning around and descending and asking Amelia for help, but the very juxtaposition of the words of “Amelia” and “help” is laughable. The woman didn’t help them back then a fortnight ago—in fact, she had treated him like a stupid child— it’s beyond the pale to think she’d even give him a chance to open his mouth before blasting him now. Simon is confident that he could guilt Samantha into explaining everything she knows about the possible side effects of memory tapes, but Amelia…?

The blond walks down the other side of building, away from where he’d last seen the false conductor. No, he is not going to Amelia to beg for help. He still has several weeks left to find the Cat, to persuade her to come with him—she owes him that much. Yes, he is going to find one little white cat amidst this infinite train without anything in his possession to tempt her fancy. No, he is not crying. Yes, he is confident he can help Grace, like he had promised… The Lucky Cat Car is still under repairs the last time he’d heard news of it, but the Cat is never far from The Carnival Car, The Twentieth Century World’s Fair Car, or any car where there are a large number of passengers and nulls to swindle. No, it would be simple to-to track those cars down with his number tracker. Yes, he wholeheartedly believes in his plan.

In reality Simon thinks that is a stupid plan, but the alternative, simply heading back to The Mall Car and watching his best friend possibly deteriorate into nothing isn’t something he can bear. He would rather watch Grace get her number down to zero and get off the train, than that. Simon is leader of the Apex, and he has the highest number ever seen, barring Amelia. This should help him. He should feel bold and powerful, but he does not. At that moment, Simon feels indistinguishable from his ten-year-old self—a dumb child, a kid, a worthless loser who can’t even help his best friend. Simon doesn’t even try to hide the tears as they fall.

“ _Excusé moi_.” There is a light tap on Simon’s shoulder. “But I am looking for a young man—tall, blond…with perhaps a… _questionable_ taste in fashion.” Simon freezes, eyes wide. “I don’t suppose you know where to find such, do you?”

Simon can barely breathe. _How? After all of this…?_ His gaze lowers, and Simon eyes the Cat, as dapper as ever in a freshly pressed vest and sleek fur. “Samantha…” he whispers.

Samantha’s yellow eyes peer up at him cautiously, as if she is fervently searching Simon’s face for something he cannot see. Her next words are spoken with great care. “Imagine my surprise when my acquaintance Michael shows up at my quarters at la Rue de Chat with a priceless Fabergé egg, and I remember thinking to myself, ‘My, my, I haven’t seen that exquisite little piece in years.’ _A little over eight years to be exact_.”

_And how did you find me so quickly?_ This is the first question that Simon wants to ask, but like always, thinking about the Cat brings forth too many emotions all at once—anger, hurt, resentment…remnants of affection. Words jumble up inside his mouth, and his face blossoms crimson. He hates that he cannot totally hate the Cat even though she had left him to die, never came back even to apologize, refuses to even now fully acknowledge that she’d hurt him, had hurt Grace-

_Grace_. Simon recalls holding her limp body and pleading with her to wake up, her confusion, her hot tears dampening his shirt… And he has the culprit right here! _What is he even doing?_ Simon opens his mouth and-

A familiar, but still ominous green pulse sweeps across The Black Market Car, and the very earth beneath them seems to heave like a giant wave. All around passengers and nulls are shaken; some of them scream in shock. Several booths full of wares topple and shatter across the pavement. Even Samatha’s hair is standing on end, but Simon knows what is happening. _Amelia_.

“ _Amelia_ …” Samantha hisses, her claws extending and scraping the pavement. All of her muscles are tense; she’s preparing to bolt, Simon can tell. He cannot allow her to do so.

“You can’t leave!” Simon shouts, wiping tears from his eyes. “You’re going to stay here and answer my questions first-!”

“You silly boy! Can’t you see that we’re all going to be sent to the caboose if we stay here? Trust me, you do _not_ want to be sent there!” She is already scrambling across the pavement, and Simon follows after her.

_Déjà vu_ , Simon.

Simon feels the sensation of the shocks and joints of the car’s wheels underneath him roil and bounce as The Black Market Car begins its quarantine sequence. Samantha is a streak of white lightning along the ground, but Simon has trouble pushing a path through a panicking mass of people; he’s much too big to squeeze past them all. He is too far away from the exit, if he keeps this up he will- _Hold on!_

Simon aims and shoots his hooks at a bare path of pavement twenty meters away. With a mighty _shlink!_ they embed themselves into the ground, and Simon rockets forward at an angle, his boots taking most of the friction damage as he speeds along the pitted pavement. He manages to avoid most of the crowd by swerving to the right or left, and ah! He’s catching up to the Cat. With a mighty gulp he releases one hook—the resulting jerk nearly pulls his other arm out of its socket as his remaining line takes all the strain—and makes a grab for the Cat’s pristine vest.

Samantha hisses—out of fear, anger, or instinct, Simon does not know—and instinctively digs her claws through Grace’s old cloak and into his bicep. Simon winces, but the pain somehow makes his senses sharper. As soon as his hook reaches its destination, Simon dislodges both it and its neighbor, aims them both harpoon hooks near the exit, and shoots them again. Simon and Samantha fly over the heads of the numerous confused and screaming populace. A slight wave of pity grips him. _These people are all about to meet the caboose…_

The Cat shudders as the adrenaline slowly drains out of her joints, her claws still clinging to Simon’s arm. “ _Merci!_ _Merci beaucoup_ , Simon…” If she dared, Simon figures Samantha would have nuzzled him if she could.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Simon mumbles. He sees the open exit door, the permanent nightmare twilight of the wasteland shifting as The Mall Car tilts upwards, the multicolored pile of people daring themselves to jump down on the platform below or risk quarantine. It would be no problem for him to make it out the door. He can still see the faded gold of the next car.

_Don’t thank me yet_ , Simon thinks. _You owe me. You still have to answer my questions._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, ENTER the final two tagged characters for this fic. I like writing for Simon, Grace, Amelia, and Samantha. I like writing for flawed people. 
> 
> Also, in this chapter, Samantha learns that the location a treasure she's lost a little over eight years ago is nearby....and also her acquaintances find a Fabergé egg. Pretty cool. 
> 
> Moreover, press F in the chat for the people of The Black Market Car. The train just takes what it wants. The train gives nary a care.


	6. Psyche in the Palace of Cupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternative title for this chapter can be called "Simon's Room." 
> 
> Grace discovers that it is possible to be too overprotected, and she doesn't like it.

Grace dreams, and as a result she sleeps badly. She dreams of nameless, faceless ghosts vying for her undivided attention. Small hands grab hers in a tight grip and urge her forward while others clasp themselves around her middle and desperately hold her back. A third pulls her ear and commands her to listen. A fourth doesn’t even bother to touch her but seems content to stand in the dark and scoff at all the stupidity. Their touch is soft and wispy like cool air—but terrifyingly _familiar_ —and this waxing realization jolts Grace like ice sliding down her spine. Grace doesn’t recognize these people, these things. She shouldn’t know them, and yet… In her dreams Grace keeps her eyes closed as she is afraid of what she might see if she opens them. _Small round green things…_

_Not again_ , Grace tells herself, but she already feels the multiple points of ten little nails scraping along her forearm, pulling…pulling…sinking—dragging her down to-

**It’s worse than I thought. You’re going to be stuck like this forever.**

_No, never again_ , Grace repeats. Grace Monroe is stronger than some phantom of her subconscious. If her metaphysical hands weren’t preoccupied at the moment, she would blindly give that dark voice both middle fingers. Grace has seen many things on the train—broken bones, concussions, people turned into wood, a close encounter with all five rows of a lava mole’s flaming teeth, people turned into stone, the ruination of a small girl’s eye socket—this is but another trial she must endure. She is not crazy. Grace sucks in a slow breath between gritted teeth and tries to will herself awake. _This is only a dream, Grace. Pull yourself together! It’s only a dream-_

**You’re really good at lying to yourself, Grace. Well, almost very good.**

_This is just a dream. Whatever nightmare trick this damned train is trying to pull, you’re better than it-_

**Alright, I’ll take it back. You’re not good at lying to yourself at all.** The unnerving disembodied voice snickers to itself, leaving Grace stunned. Never before has it shown any hint of an actual personality.

_Just a dream! Just a dream! Wake up! Wake up! Wake_ -

“-up!” Grace nearly tumbles out of bed as she is jarred awake. For a few minutes she lies there, sweating, staring at the faux cedar ceiling—Grace had chosen the mountainside villa that night—and simply breathes. The sweat beading along her forehead and sliding down her neck has a strangely calming effect; her heart rate gradually slows, and the world comes back into focus. There are no ghosts clinging onto her here, no dark voices mocking her; Grace is okay.

No. No, she is not okay. She then hears the clacking of numbers rearranging themselves along her arm, and Grace doesn’t need to look down to know that her number has gone down again—because of course it has. Because nothing has gone right for her ever since she woke up in the hospital wing. Grace is not the type to wallow in self pity, but she allows herself a few silent tears in frustration. She takes a deep breath and lists all the things she needs to accomplish this day: take shower, talk to Apex, talk to Simon, fix whatever that has happened to her, figure out some sort of game plan for the future. She remains a leader, and highest number or not, Simon isn’t the best at leading. Everyone, including him, is no doubt still very upset from yesterday’s events.

Last night and her accompanying dreams are frightening and more distressing than she'd care to admit, but Grace has a responsibility. She is needed. Grace kicks one leg out and drags herself out of bed towards her personal shower that she and Simon had rigged up together long ago, showers being rarely found in the back of old furniture stores.

_Simon_. Grace bites her lip in thought. No, he isn't the best leader, but…handling the Apex in her “absence”, treating her no differently than before in spite of the large difference between their numbers, actually listening to her when she refused his suggestion of the hospital wing… Though it would have ended with his butt on the ground, Simon could have fought her on that one. Grace appreciates that he didn't. Perhaps…he is not the best leader, but he is a good… _something_. Partner? Grace is ill-used to the concept of self-reflection, but as strange as it may sound—and Grace would have never expected in a thousand years would she ever consider a situation like this—she is grateful to wake up screaming alone in her own bed instead of one where a bunch of terrified children are watching over her. 

The Apex children are all like Grace—in Grace’s opinion—once upon a time. She and Simon never tread upon the subject of parents or family or life before the train very often, but at least on the surface Grace suspects that Simon’s home life was analogous to hers. The Apex need someone to guide them like she had needed as a child, like Simon as well. Perhaps all of their parents are similar to hers as well; how else would they have found the train? It would have been wonderful for Grace to have found something like the Apex when she first boarded, her fateful encounter with The Conductor notwithstanding, instead of wandering alone for months on end with no idea of what the train is and why she is on it. That would have saved her a lot of sleepless nights, tears, and pain, before realizing the extent of the opportunity the train had given her, before she realized life is better on board the train than it is back home.

To Grace, the person responsible for saving these children before the train convinces them to get their numbers down and leave, the person who helps the Apex become the people they want to be, cannot be seen weak and injured in front of them. There is no way she would have entered the hospital wing and frighten them all any further than they most likely were already.

Someone is knocking on the glass of her storefront by the time Grace is done showering.

“Hold on!” Grace yells. _Already, huh?_ She slips into fresh clothing and fastens one earring, and then the other, before giving her reflection a reassuring grin within the mirror. _Knock ‘em dead, Grace. They’re beating down your door. They can’t live without you._ And indeed, someone is still knocking on the glass.

“Keep your pants on, will you?” laughs Grace. Only one person in this entire car could be so persistent. He’s probably still worried from last night. _Oh, Simon…_ Grace gives her hair a toss and works a few locks around until she styles her hair just so before leaving her mirror and walking around the corner to press the button which unlocks her automated doors. Simon knows to let himself in when the doors open, and as if on cue, Grace hears their familiar swish. Grace plans to pop the question concerning what really happened two weeks ago preferably in private and after grabbing some lunch, but if Simon wants to do this now… Well, Grace is willing to oblige him.

“Hey Simon, are you-” Oh!

Oh.

“L-Lucy?” Grace cannot hide the stammer in voice as she walks out of her bedroom expecting to see a tall blond, but receiving a tiny brunette instead.

“Miss Grace!” Lucy gives a brief, awkward bow. “I’ve brought you lunch.” Indeed, her slightly trembling hands are holding a plastic tray containing a slightly smashed but edible hoagie, a bag of chips, an apple, and a pint of milk. Adorable, but Grace might pass on this one.

Grace sighs. “Thanks, Lucy. You’re the best, really, but… I really don’t need you guys bringing me lunch.” _Jeez, does the entire car think she’s an invalid now?_

“B-but how else are you gonna get food? You can’t just walk into the food court anymore. I-it’ll make you ill!” The longer she speaks, the more Lucy is trying—and failing—to hold back tears. _How great. Was Lucy one of the ones present at the fiasco yesterday?_ While pondering just how many traumatized children she’s going to have to reassure before the nightmare is over, Grace is already on her knees and lifting the tray out of the small girl’s hands.

“Hey, hey, come on now…” Grace takes Lucy’s hands in hers. “Who told you that?”

And this is how Grace learns that she is banned from the food court _and_ banned from leaving The Mall Car in general _and_ the children have all been encouraged to keep her company—in case she has another fit again. Worst of all, Grace learns that the stinky yellow haired weasel—h _ow on earth had she been singing his praises in her mind just minutes ago?_ —who had delivered these divine proclamations is not even here right now. Oh glorious tyrannical leader isn’t here, of course, because of course he isn’t. Because nothing has gone right for Grace ever since she woke up in the hospital wing. Because she has no scrawny stubbly necks to wring. _How dare Simon order her around when it is Grace who saves his skin every other mission and hundreds of times in-between?_ In the end Grace only outwardly calms down when Lucy mounts enough bravery to squeak that Grace is slowly pulverizing her bag of chips between both hands and spilling deep fried potato dust all over the carpet.

Lucy, who in another life would discover that she has a preternatural sense of always selecting the correct wire to cut when defusing a bomb, reaches for Grace’s arm. “Don’t be mad, Miss Grace, really. We all just really want you to be okay…”

And so it is. Behind Lucy, three other Apex children arrive, and they all join with Lucy in pushing her to eat the food on the tray. Grace obliges, if only to stop their badgering—and perhaps, out of personal guilt. She won’t allow them all to run roughshod over her, but Grace cannot help but feel awful about last night; how terrified they must have been. She is the one who is responsible for them, after all. Little does Grace anticipate that four children quickly becomes nine, then eighteen, then twenty six as word spreads through the car that Grace is awake and talking, and soon almost the entire population of The Mall Car is camped out in her room, shiny little faces all turned to her. Their obvious concern, their clear adoration of her would usually make Grace feel good; it still does in a sense, but now their adoration also fills her with a bit of unease.

The children casually argue among themselves who will to be the one honored with the task of providing Grace food—after all, an integral area of her home is now for all intents and purposes _verboten_ —and they promise to work even harder to bring the best spoils from raids back home to her. Because if she can’t go outside then how will she be able to find cool stuff from raiding? They are all so casual about discussing Grace—with Grace sitting amongst them and gradually becoming more and more alarmed as she begins to understand the terrible depth of the situation she’s in. Until now, a large part of her had been worried about being replaced and then ignored and forgotten by the very group she’d help start—the Apex always appear to obey Simon’s orders more stringently than they do her own—but now she recognizes that she’s been upset over nothing. The children love their Grace; they adore her. Grace is trapped in a gilded cage crafted by so many concerned little hands.

"If you go outside and get sick, what if you fall off the train? Or get eaten? Or get really hurt?"

"We love you, Grace. You don’t want to leave us, do you? You take care of us."

"You’re the best leader around, maybe even better than the Conductor, even!"

Maybe there is such a notion of being the recipient of too much attention... The Apex find nothing wrong in keeping her here within this car until she gets better—if she gets better—the additional clause is not stated, but Grace feels the weight of it. They all agree with Simon, and try as she might to persuade them into an alternative, the Apex has zero intentions on defying his orders. He has the highest number, after all.

_Simon_ … As badly as Grace wants to wring his neck, she understands the asinine thought progression behind all of this. Simon obviously cares about her deeply. In prime reductionist Simon fashion, he would think he’s protecting her; he wouldn’t consider this to be overbearing at all. Because… Grace scans her crowded room as she comes to a conclusion… Because if Simon had admitted to her that he was thinking it is better for her not to be roaming throughout the train, Grace would immediately shoot his idea down without much thought. Grace is not the type to allow anyone to decide what’s good for her, though she and Simon are equals—in her eyes at least… She sighs. _And yet, here she is grounded in The Mall Car while Simon is out doing…doing…doing what, exactly?_

_His best friend is apparently in a precarious condition, and right now of all times Simon Laurent is missing? Hmm..._ And so, Grace then asks her first truly productive question of the day. She frames it almost innocently, smiling. “Apex! Guys… Did Simon ever tell you what he’s doing outside The Mall Car?” Grace hates that she is reduced to asking. Grace hates that she even has to ask.

“Simon says he’s gone to get help!” The response is immediate.

Help.

Grace takes this moment in time to perform a sanity check. Grace Monroe is eighteen years old. Her best, and only, friend of the past eight years is Simon Laurent. Besides each other, all they have is the Apex, and they don’t communicate at all with outsiders unless those strangers are kids who want to join. As she hears the word “ _help_ ”, Grace’s brain pauses for a brief second. Simon knows no one besides her and the Apex; who would he go to for help? This has to be false, but…Simon doesn’t lie. He just doesn’t. He hates lies. Grace knows Simon like the back of her hand. She knows everything she needs to know about him, and nothing about that “help” statement smells right. _Who on the train does Simon trust enough to leave her in such a fragile condition—or so he claims—and run to for help?_ That is a tall order for one as standoffish as Simon. He would never leave her side in the best of times… In fact, he regularly makes excuses just to remain in her presence. 

Grace recalls the evening before. Her pulse steadily rises as she remembers the scene as clear as day—Simon’s more neatly combed hair, his new number, his suddenly upgraded sense of fashion… _Just who is he seeing? And why doesn’t he come out and tell her?_ Though Grace has kept many a secret, namely small ones, from Simon, the notion that Simon can keep one from her is… _uncomfortable_.

It is a mystery that she must uncover.

Instead of wasting her energy further in trying to change the Apex’s collective minds about her pseudo-imprisonment, Grace decides to change tactics. She leans into the coddling, as sick as that makes her. They make her tea when she claims that she’s cold. They promise to come back and regale her with stories about their adventures while raiding when Grace puts on a sad face and moans that she is going to miss all the fun for a while. When Grace purposefully gives a large yawn and claims to be sleepy, the none of the children think otherwise. They walk out of Grace’s quarters reassured that they’ve done their very best to make Grace happy. When Grace’s bedroom light switches off, they are already debating among themselves who gets to deliver Grace’s breakfast in a few hours—ultimately Marcus C. wins.

Little do they know that in bed Grace awaits, with both harpoon gear and tennis shoes equipped, a determined scowl plastered across her face. It’s time to unveil whatever her friend is hiding.

* * *

Every train car is a concept or a world contained within a moving metal box. Simon and Grace are split upon whether all of this is either magic or science or a mad mix of both, but on what they do agree is that the train is akin to a video game, and if one discovers a particular train car’s glitch, one can transverse that car how one likes—without having to play the game by the train’s silly rules. Sadly not many outside the Apex know this fact. When presented with a problem, most passengers either give up, despair, or end up pressing onward in a manner in which the train wants them. Grace, however, knows that when faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem, whether induced by train or thirty plus children and one sullen teenager, there is always a way around it.

_There is always a workaround_ , Grace thinks as she partially slithers on her hands and knees across smooth wooden crossbeams, completely invisible from the other side of the ceiling above everyone else’s heads. She keeps her face low as close to the wood as humanly possible and breathes slow and carefully—there is no need to rush and no need to panic, unless she wants to fall through the ceiling of The Mall Car. There is hardly any oxygen in this dark interstitial space above the stark white tiled ceilings of The Mall Car and that great, black airless void that exists above it—and above that possibly the roof of the train car itself.

This stale, airless, oppressive void is a somewhat common feature in cars—and why Grace rarely volunteers to be the person who explores above ceilings solely for this reason. It’s incredibly suffocating to exist in this space though none to her knowledge has ever actually succumbed—but she can't exactly be seen creeping through the car at night, especially after she’d declared herself to be so tired thirty minutes earlier. Out there is also her greatest obstacle aside from thirty odd traumatized children—all assorted fourteen locks and bolts on Simon’s door. They may have called Grace a thief in her earlier life, but she is no burglar. She does, however, make for a very beautiful and talented spy.

_Now, just what is Simon hiding?_ As she lifts up a ceiling tile and allows herself to drop lightly into Simon’s living area, landing in a controlled crouch, Grace is fully prepared to find out. Simon’s rooms are a weird mix of the typical teenager’s abode as depicted in younger Grace’s Saturday morning cartoons, a woodworker’s hobbyist shop, and a small, but thriving library. Her nose picks up the familiar scent of musky cologne and old clothing and dried paint, and against her better judgement, Grace relaxes just a little bit. Even in dim lamplight and its long master gone, she feels comfortable here. Her shoes leave grimy footprints on his wooden veneer floors, but what right would Simon have to complain when he pulls stunts like earlier? When Grace finally finds him, he will be lucky if he still draws breath. Apex leader or not, Grace knows that he once owned Batman underwear—the socks and shoes fashion disaster wasn’t even the half of it—one should never mess with a person who holds dirt as poisonous as Grace does over Simon.

Thankfully, Simon’s obsession with neatness makes it much easier for Grace to search—every section of his rooms are dedicated to a singular purpose—his reenactment table in the center of the room, display cases off to the side for easy access, writing station offset in front for convenience when recording imaginary battles. Very efficient. Dorky, but efficient. Almost immediately Grace makes a beeline towards his writing desk, as Simon is a creature of habit and tends to jot down his daily thoughts at random times of day. If he’s been sneaking out and having clandestine encounters with strangers, it is likely he would record his plans here. After all, who is breaking into the man whose room has fourteen locks on its door just to read random writings? No one in the Apex, that’s for sure—or perhaps, no one in the Apex until now.

Simon’s desk is unusually cluttered for one so usually organized, as if he’d left in a hurry. A small stack of mostly blank papers are scattered across its wooden expanse, along with a couple of wooden figurines. _How curious…_ His writing is even more abominable than usual—another sign of haste—and Simon’s handwriting resembles normally resembles scribble on the best of days. Grace has long since given up trying to decipher _Simonese_ years ago—if she isn’t so positive that he is working extra hard on proper handwriting while working on his fantasy book, Grace wouldn’t have bothered to even promise to read it in the first place. Even so, Grace leans over the writing desk and tries her absolute best to parse words together.

_‘Ho-rse.’ ‘-ncess.’ ‘Journey to the-’_ Bleugh. More Esmoroth stuff. Grace makes a face and tosses the offending sheet to the floor.

The next sheet of paper is underneath a wooden toy soldier. This one has a funny little black beard. _Not bad_. Grace picks him up and respectfully sets him on his feet and away from her snooping. The next sheet is where Grace finally strikes gold. Her breath shortens and her eyes widen as she reads. _What on earth? No. What the hell? ’Tape.’ ‘-aman-.’ ‘-lia, at le-ast once-’_ These must be names and dates and just who is-? For the first in a very, very long time, Grace loses her balance. Her hand slips off the desk, and she accidentally knocks several objects all over the floor. _Who is this_ blank _-lia? What is a tape of…memories_?

“What’s going on with you, Simon?” Grace has no idea what to think. Her best friend is not the type to keep any sort of secret, much less humongous ones like these seem to be, but… In the face of such overwhelming evidence… She has to read more. Grace bends down to gather up Simon’s spilled papers when something small catches her eye. _Oh… Huh, if you look at that… So he’s kept it after all of these years…_

Grace bends down to pick up a chunky wooden figurine—one that is much older and notably less polished than the others. Simon has not always been as talented at whittling as he is now. Grace remembers when he had first started—or resumed rather, according to the blond himself—after lifting a knife and a block of wood from a car. One of Simon’s very first completed pieces is a carving of Grace—and it was, is, absolutely atrocious. She recalls laughing at him when he had finished; surely he didn’t mean for that hunk of wood to be her, right? Simon had flushed bright red and exclaimed hotly that of course it wasn’t—in fact, it’s a rendition of the Duke of Wellington—but even at twelve years old Grace had been quite certain that whoever this duke had been, he had never worn purple and pink.

Its uneven paint is old and chipped now, the happy hot pink faded into a dull rose; its smile, however, is as bright as ever. Grace wonders what Simon thought as he sat here the days and nights before and holds this figure and wrote these words. Some unknown emotion inside of her twists, and Grace suddenly feels as if she’s stepped into waters too deep for her liking.

Grace stares down at her happy wooden _doppelgänger_. “I think it’s time you and me catch up with your creator.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mall Rats in canon: 
> 
> Simon observes Grace acting differently.  
> Simon: Grace sus...
> 
> Mall Rats in this fic: 
> 
> Grace observes Simon acting differently.  
> Grace: Simon sus... 
> 
> Simon is best leader, no? All of his best decisions are made in Grace's absence, though perhaps it is better to prohibit Grace from traveling the train right now... Everyone just really loves Grace. She's been having a hard time lately. 
> 
> Also, another miscellaneous and somewhat unrelated fact: the inspiration for this story is actually the myth of Cupid and Psyche, since I compare the end of Season Three to a Greek tragedy, and I wanted to write something that isn't necessarily a tragedy, and somehow it all snowballed into an AU. Heh.


	7. Vinegar For Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cat invites Simon in for tea and sympathy. Meanwhile, Grace weighs her options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a lot of French words and phrases. Translations are included below in end notes.

“No more lies. You’re going to tell me all that you know about memory tapes.”

_The poor boy is terrible at subtlety_ , the Cat remarks to herself with more than a little sarcasm. _No intrigue, no polish_. Like before, he stalks around her property like a raging bull... _Is he appreciative that she’d allowed him inside after he’d thrown around and broken so many of her precious things only a short time ago?_ Oh no, of course not. She starts washing herself—a messy appearance is a personal pet peeve of hers and in general, bursts of adrenaline leaves her coat looking unacceptably shaggy. Simon averts his eyes in clear embarrassment and... _Does he even volunteer to pick up that brush on the table to help her out?_ Oh no… of course not. The Cat sighs. He used to be so helpful once upon a time.

The Cat has hundreds of secret hideouts and cozy cottages scattered throughout the train. After all, one never knows when one might suddenly need a warm, comfy location to sleep and shower—and after that disastrous incident in The Mall Car, thankfully the Cat had retained enough wits about her to remember this place located about twelve cars down from where the ill-fated market car used to reside. Neat, cozy, and perhaps a tad more rustic than the Cat would have liked— _she really has to stop allowing Frank to borrow her hideouts for his annual hibernations_ —but it would do for now.

“Memory tapes?” drawls the Cat. _Eh bien, the Grace girl, of course_. She grits her teeth in anticipation. Yes, her sagacious ears are soon going to be assaulted by more star-crossed teenage tomfoolery. The Cat almost rolls her eyes at the thought. Ah…and she had had such high hopes for him when she had first seen Simon’s face without the idiotic Apex symbol. The sudden hope that Simon had left such an awful, destructive band of children stirs up some remnant of emotion deep within the Cat’s mostly iron heart—it would at least finally put to rest that annoying sting of guilt she had whenever she’d thought of him. Perhaps Simon has left the group, though likely unwillingly. Grace doesn’t strike the Cat as the type to forgive and forget easily if she finds out that someone has shifted through her memories.

“Memory tapes… Ah yes, Simon, what specifically do you want to know about them?” She rests on paw on top of the other. This may be a long evening yet.

“You heard me before. I said _all_ that you know,” Simon replied flatly as he plops down so rudely on her prized chaise longue— _only five of the sort ever made, and the car that they that were all created for long since recycled_ —before he adds, “And an emphasis on how they can…hurt someone.” The final two words he stumbles over very quickly like one over an object in the dark. _How interesting…_

“If that is what you’re after, I’m assuming you have more time to listen this time around.” Silently, the Cat rises to all fours. “A full explanation will take quite a while; therefore, I’m going to put on some tea.” Several unnamed tins sit along a low shelf at a height perfectly suited for the cat to reach. “I have Lady Chatterley and Darjeeling. Any preferences?”

“No.”

The Cat chooses the darjeeling, which she was ultimately going to chose anyway. Now all she has to do is wait for the kettle to boil. “To begin, I don’t normally divulge such information without naming a price first-”

“Price?” Simon yells, sitting up straight as a ramrod. “What are you on about? I’m not playing your game! Last time there was no price.”

“And during our last encounter, I lost several of my prized possessions, and I was forced to spend the next few minutes calming down a very confused Randall—the idiot thought we were all going to play at war again. Frank and I were at a very real risk of being snowed in for days, you know. It was all very distressing.” The look Simon gives her all but screams how he cares not one iota for the Cat’s perceived distress. “Also I have a hard earned reputation to uphold. Why, if word ever got around that I was freely giving my services even in detriment to myself-”

Rolling his eyes with irritation, Simon interrupts again. “You can stop your theatrics now. Go ahead and get on what whatever you really want to say.”

_Ah, non!_ _The insolence!_ At the last second, the Cat’s would-be hiss transforms into a purr, quite dangerous. “Do not forget, Simon, that you’ve come to me for help, again. As a certain madame once told you, _on ne prends pas les mouches avec le vinaigre_.”

The Cat expects him to retort, and retort Simon does, though in a much softer and quieter manner than she expects. “You’re the last person I’d listen to for moral advice… _Samantha_.”

_Samantha_. Why on earth had she allowed the boy to attach strings to her, to name her such a silly name like Samantha? The Cat is the Cat; she belongs to no one. She is named by no one; she is Herself. Samantha remembers that day—Simon had been so young; he’d felt uncomfortable at constantly having to call her “ _cat_ ”, and therefore suggested a random name he’d considered fitting for her, right out of the blue. The Cat, who had been certifiably out of her mind at the moment—she had always found head scratches to be so sinfully satisfying—had agreed on the spot, and _voilà_ , the name Samantha the Cat is recorded into stone. It is difficult for a denizen to reject the name a passenger grants it, no matter how ridiculous that name may be—though having one’s passenger leave the train tends to reset things. How wonderful for the Cat that she is stuck with the one passenger who absolutely refuses to leave.

The Cat stares at Simon. Simon glares at the Cat. The kettle on the fire begins to sing. Adjusting her waistcoat, the Cat stands up to address it. The little room goes silent except for the clatter of utensils and the soft _pit pit_ of dried tea leaves.

The Cat is the one who ends up breaking the stalemate. “Earlier," she says briskly. "You mentioned wanting to know specifically about memory tapes harming people.” She collects a teacup. “I take it one of the Apex brats found it lying around somewhere and mistook it for a camera?” Out of the corner of her eye, the Cat studies Simon’s face. _That twitch!_ She remembers that Simon had always possessed a certain _je ne sais quoi_ —it makes him quite interesting, in a way. The silly boy would be abysmal at poker if he ever tried it.

“N-no, I used it on Grace,” Simon replies quickly, face flushing red. “And some things happened…” His voice trails off into silence.

“ _Meaning_ …? Simon, don’t tell me you left her within her own tape.” The Cat has no love lost when it comes to Grace. In fact the loss of her Lucky Cat Car, though no longer very recent, still stings, and Grace’s anti-denizen propaganda doesn’t sit right with the Cat—namely because the Cat is a denizen herself. However, being trapped in one’s memories is a gruesome way to go. _How long does it take for the average human to die of thirst?_ The Cat isn’t sure. Oh well. _Adieu_ , Grace.

“Wait! _No_ … Not that, Grace is okay. I mean, she’s walking and talking and all that stuff. It’s just that…she’s been having these blackout spells lately, and they’ve started only after the I used the device you gave me.”

“Hmm…” the Cat hums into her tea. “Are you sure you haven’t missed any recent head injuries?”

Simon falls back heavily onto the overly plush chaise longue. “I’m certain of it.”

“Then check again, because the girl has bonked her head upon something, and both of you have missed it.”

“That's not it; you’re wrong." Simon shakes his head. "The thing responsible is the memory tape!”

“I, wrong? A memory tape is not able to leave lasting damage to the mind of the person it’s viewing!” the Cat finally hisses, having finally had enough. “Do not lecture me, Simon, you, a boy not even two decades old! The memory tapes were designed years before you were even conceived and for a singular purpose. To you and the rest of your little troupe, this train is little more than a playground. You have no idea how this train operates—the amount of probabilities being calculated every second… _En verité_ , _you_ came to _me_ for help, and I am telling _you_ —as I have told you before— that in the hands of a stranger, the tape is harmless. It is when one finds oneself in his own memory tape where the danger lies.”

“Harmless!? Harmless!?” Hardened blue eyes lock on to watchful yellow. “Then explain how Grace’s blackouts are triggered by turtles! It’s a null thing, I’m sure. That little girl who was traveling with us, Hazel, turns out that she was secretly a turtle this entire time.”

The Cat’s eyes widened at such news, at such potentially useful information… _That girl? A denizen?_ In all of her centuries of living, she has never heard of such a thing. For a denizen to appear so human, it’s… “The girl Hazel. Is she still traveling alongside the both of you?”

“No…” Simon mutters darkly, crossing his arms. “We split up a while ago. The last thing I know is that she was traveling with Amelia.”

_Amelia_ … Of course, Amelia would be drawn to such a special case. What secrets could her old enemy be hiding? “Tell me everything. Hazel, what happened to Grace, everything. Leave no stone unturned; I want to hear even the most minor detail.” Her tea cools are she places her paws around the cup, and waits, and listens.

* * *

Her tea is stone cold by the time Simon is done, her mouth dry, her mind commiserating. _That poor girl._ The Cat acknowledges Grace’s condition with some sympathy but reserves most for Hazel. Children will perhaps forever be a sort of Achilles’ heel for her. Her temporary partnership with the Tulip girl, her still dealing with Simon long after he’d left her responsibility… _Que serà serà,_ that is the Cat’s primary philosophy, yet… Maybe she should have never given in to Simon’s pleading the first time; she should have never given him the device. Samantha admits to herself that she had underestimated Simon—when she had given him the memory tape, she only had anticipated two outcomes: one, Simon does the sensible action and refuses to use it on Grace, learns to trust a little stronger, and hopefully choses to follow her advice concerning numbers; or two, Simon uses the tape on Grace, they separate after all the fallout by the betrayal, at long last the boy will ultimately learn to think for himself, get his number down, leave the train—but _this_?

Having finally unleashed all of the thoughts he had long kept inside his head, Simon is quiet, and miserable. He sits, slouched over himself, his lean figure outlined by the flickering fire, and the Cat marvels how in under forty-eight hours he had transformed from a desperate, but concerned friend to a madman willing to tear said friend’s mind apart. Samantha pretends to take a sip of her disgustingly cold tea to hide her grimace. _Eight years with no other meaningful interaction with any other person… Both of them highly stubborn…_ She, with almost two centuries of observing human behavior underneath her vest, should have seen the disaster coming. Somehow her Simon is the first since the invention of memory tapes to successfully use it in a manner completely contrary from its purpose. If the Cat isn’t so horrified, she would be mildly impressed. _If others found out… If such a thing could be replicated…_ Samantha shudders.

“Are you aware of what you’ve done?” She observes him as eyes stare at the polished wooden floor.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” Simon mutters, jaw clenching and unclenching in nervous tension.

“Congratulations, I’m certain that you’re the first to ever pull this stunt with memory tape. You’re a first in train history, and to be a _first_ in _train history_ is quite a feat, Simon. Unfortunately, that is all the useful information I can provide.” The Cat pauses here to sigh heavily. “Being a first means that there is no established record for what you or Grace is experiencing. _Mon cher,_ your Grace is the mouse in this experiment. We will have to wait and see how the game plays out.”

“But we can’t wait! She…” His face flashes through a quick series of emotions: pensiveness, sadness, fear, and then frantic desperation. “Please, Samantha. You didn’t see how she looked lying on the floor like that. _Please_ … You must know something. You know everything about the train!”

“Not _everything_ about this train, though not from a lack of trying…” Samantha purrs. “I’m afraid I cannot help you.” And honestly, she can’t.

“Then why even give me the stupid thing if you didn’t know-!”

“And I tried to warn you not to, Simon! You proceeded to ignore me and do so anyway. How could I have anticipated that you would discover something so horrendous?” Samantha huffs as she stands up on two legs and tosses the remnants of her half-empty cup onto a bare patch of ashes. She pushes the kettle over the fire to prepare another steaming cup. “Who knows? Perhaps she might deteriorate enough to finally become one of your miniatures. Look at it from this perspective; you won’t have to worry about her number going down ever again.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Samantha spies Simon shooting up out of his chair, her priceless crystalline lamp held high in hand above his head— _Mon Dieu! That’s one of a kind! Stop righ_ —but the lamp trembles in his grasp, and he falls backwards onto the overstuffed chaise again. His shoulders are stiff as he breathes slowly, in and out.

_Oh_.

Samantha releases a long breath she didn't know she was holding. “Simon…?” The Cat approaches him cautiously. She cannot see his eyes, but her sensitive ears hear the hitches in his breath. He is upset, she observes offhandedly, but Samantha is not sorry for the words she’d said. When her paws wrap carefully around her prized possession, Simon releases it without any fuss. His arm drops as if someone high above has cut a string. “Sim-”

But at that exact moment the Cat is interrupted by the singing of her kettle. Setting her lamp onto a nearby table, away from any further threat of shattering via angry teenager, she turns away from him to address it. It is then, as she is measuring just enough darjeeling for four cups, that the idea strikes her.

_Ah… That one? Old girl, that one's quite risky._ However, the Cat is not above risky. It just might work.

_And more importantly it possibly may help the boy…_ Samantha leaves the fireplace, the tea, and Simon behind, dashing towards the other half of the room. The other half of the Cat's cabin getaway chiefly consists of various unorganized mounds of pillows and blankets and old fishing trophies— _Ugh, she really_ has _to remind herself to talk to Frank_ —until she reaches a low shelf containing a row of small boxes. Like everything in her possession, the Cat knows exactly the location of the object for which she is looking. There it is, a plain brown cardboard box, entirely nondescript and as unnoticeable as humanly possible to disguise the contents therein. Samantha immediately grabs it with her mouth.

“Here.” Simon jumps slightly out of his stupor when he feels the heat of steam rolling off the teacup against his wrist. However, Samantha insists. “Take it.”

His red rimmed eyes peer down dismally at her. “I didn’t ask for this,” he croaks.

“I know,” the Cat replies merrily as he accepts the cup, a little warily. He knows she is up to something. “And here.” She slides the nondescript box into his lap. “Do not open until it’s time.” At these words Simon almost leaps out of his seat as if the box contains a venomous serpent. _Which is good_ , Samantha thinks. _He may actually_ heed _my words this time_.

“W-what is this?” he stammers.

“Your only possible shot at getting help. Tell me, Simon. Have you ever heard of the old children’s fable ‘ **Belling the Cat** ’?” replies the Cat silkily.

Simon shakes his head in confusion. “No… I haven’t. What’s that?”

“ _Écoutez bien_ , and I will explain in time. But first…” the Cat leans closer to Simon’s confused face flickering in the firelight. “Just how far are you willing to go to save Grace?”

* * *

  
The entirety of The Mall Car grows quiet as Grace raises the hockey stick high. All attention is divided between her and the young teen kneeling before her, their breaths held collectively. All jealously wish to be in Joey’s position at that moment as he bends down on one knee in front of her and quivers in barely restrained nervousness. From her position standing above him, Grace gives her best serene expression to uphold the solemnity of the ceremony. She only hopes that she is making the right decision.

“Joey Brooks, please rise.” For the first time in her life, Grace Monroe is split between being a good leader and being a good friend.

The aforementioned young teen wobbles as he rises onto both feet. He stares at Grace with starry-eyed reverence.

“Repeat after me,” orders Grace.

The boy obediently nods. “After me,” he repeats, without thinking, and a rush of giggles breaks out like a wave among the crowd. Even Grace’s mouth twitches once or twice before she summons every ounce of willpower she possesses to keep a straight face and continue with the swearing in. It’s best if she continues. _A body in motion tends to stay in motion, after all._ She bites back the sickening feeling of guilt.

“I do solemnly swear…” she began.

“I do solemnly swear…”

“…that I will support and defend this Apex against all enemies, both null and human-”

Never before does Grace ever consider she’d be doing this. Grace is a direct leader. The day she swears in a deputy is the day she lies shriveled and dying in her bed, struggling to draw her final breaths, and yet here she is, standing here with the Sacred Scion— _Jeez, where does Simon come up with these lame titles?_ —held high. _Simon_ … Grace isn’t sure how to think of him now. Last night… His writings… Grace alone is the only person who knows that Simon Laurent has gone off the deep end. He makes up fantasies—and no, not the nerdy Esmoroth kind—in his head, and he thinks they’re real—Grace has pieced together pages upon pages of the two of them, Grace and Simon, somehow spending a good amount of time around nulls, their listening to clear and outrageous heresy such as the conductor not being real…and…some charlatan walking around named Cecilia? Emilia?

Grace will never and has never spent any prolonged amount of time around nulls—she has never met an “Emilia”. The whole situation stinks to high heaven; yet Grace cannot dwell upon it too deeply, for she had soon discovered that thinking about the nulls and this “Emilia” for too long causes her to feel that familiar itching, that foreboding clenching of her hand that promises another blackout soon… The implications of that worry her more than anything.

“-and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter-”

Grace recalls laying awake the night previous and mulling over the possibilities that her best friend has gone insane. Judging by those notes, he is either gone completely off the rails, or he is heretic full blown; either way he is beyond her. _And don’t you find it a coincidence now, Grace, when you’re suffering from sudden memory loss that Simon pulls a stunt like this?_ A familiar dark voice whispers this into her ear... Logic dictates that she cut him off now, especially since he’s not within The Mall Car at present. In spite of recent events, Grace is the more popular between the two. She could make a move and cut Simon off from all leadership capabilities and do it stupidly easily. But then, Grace remembers eight years of friendship—years of having grown up alongside Simon, having his back, his having hers, all of the days they shared together, both the good and the bad; she thinks of that stupid, concentrated look he gives when she says something particularly witty and he is trying and failing to read between the lines… Grace feels the hint of something foreign tickle the corners of her eyes and internally slaps herself. _Not now!_ and _Control yourself_!

“So help me, and may my numbers never go down,” Grace finishes. The Sacred Stick, or whatever, feels as heavy as a block of iron in her grasp.

“-and may my numbers never go down.” The boy completes the vow breathlessly. The rest of the Apex are silent, for now is the moment of truth.

There is some—strange, stupid, terribly strong, completely idiotic—thing deep within Grace that will always make her risk her neck to save Simon. Maybe it is a condition forged at the very moment they met, all those years ago. She doesn’t know, and it irks her. Grace knows what she’s read—until Simon can explain what he’s written in a way that will convince her to let him re-enter The Mall Car, Grace can only assume he’s gone insane. And yet here she is chasing after him, because…because she already misses his dependable presence beside her.

“Then, I Grace Monroe, leader of the Apex and possessor of highest number in this car, deem Joey Deputy _pro tempore_.” The hockey stick comes down upon the boy’s shoulder. “Rise, and claim your title.”

Cheers ring out among the packed concourse, and Grace gives them all a tight lipped smile. That kid Joey gazes up at her, eyes shining with overwhelming pride and gratitude that Grace would bestow such an honor upon him. He doesn’t know that he had only been chosen because he was the oldest child with the highest number, and therefore, one of the least likely to screw things up. A thirteen year old selected to lead ten year olds, all so Grace can be free to track down her co-leader and best friend so that she may smack some sense into him, insane or not. That kid has no clue of the headaches he’s in for. _Good job at not leaving them leaderless, Grace_.

Grace is not a religious person, but she looks to the ceiling and prays to the Conductor that she is doing the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations are as follows: 
> 
> que serà serà = "what will be, will be"  
> on ne prends pas les mouches avec le vinaigre = "you don't catch flies with vinegar/you catch more flies with honey than vinegar"  
> je ne sais quoi = a French phrase that has been borrowed into English, "a quality that can't be fully described or expressed"  
> adieu = "goodbye"  
> en verité = "in truth/truly"  
> mon cher = "my dear"  
> Mon Dieu = "my God"  
> écoutez bien = "listen well" 
> 
> If you have any questions or corrections for better translations, feel free to comment, and I will add them! 
> 
> Also, you guys are going to soon receive even more of my completely inaccurate head canons. If we ever get more seasons and all of it turns out to be trash, well, let it be known that I tried.  
> Everyone gets a good dose of suffering this chapter. Simon is out to help Grace, and Grace wants to save Simon. You know what they say, adversity builds character, right? Meh...


	8. A Little Red Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace steps out.  
> Simon Laurent tastes absolutely delicious. 10/10 nulls will agree.

No one is there to whine and pester Grace that she’s making a bad decision. When she finally pulls rank and lays down the law, the children aren’t happy, but fall into place as expected all too easily. Simple logic dictates that the Apex follow the member with the highest number present. Simon is out, but Grace is in; therefore, certain recent rules are now deemed non-binding. A part of her mind is in mild disbelief that such faulty logic actually works but decides not to question it. Grace is a leader, not a teacher. It’s not her job to encourage critical thinking skills.

Strangely Grace finds herself feeling more than a little bored. She doesn’t know what she wants to hear. Dissent? Of course not. Concern? Grace frowns. _Perhaps_ … There are times—though not often—when Grace finds that the Apex leader persona has grown stale and where for a moment she wishes to treated as just another passenger on the train. She would never dare admit it aloud, but at that instant while standing in the doorway of The Mall Car, she wishes that a hand would reach out with concern for her.

Grace misses her tall, grumpy shadow who would be now be spitting some procedure number _whatever_ stating that it is illegal for Apex members to travel the train alone or something… It’s all happened so often before that she can easily picture the furrowed brow—one dent is slightly deeper than the other, it’s weird, and Simon has no clue why she laughs— that unique exasperated look of both care and disapproval… Grace sighs.

She hopes that he isn’t crazy.

Strong winds buffet Grace’s hair as she pulls out a wriggling orb dangling at the end of a short silver chain. It dimly reflects the perpetual semi-twilight of the wasteland. “Alright. Wakey, wakey...” With one finger, she gives two sharp taps along its side, and in response the sphere begins to emit a high pitched hum. To strangers outside the Apex, it may not look especially valuable, but this odd, yet useful little orb possesses the ability to track the location of any living being on the train, provided one has an item on hand to sacrifice that belongs to the person one wants to track. Formerly located inside the bottom of Simon’s random stash drawer, its new home is Grace’s fanny pack, and she is gracious enough to provide it fresh air and sunlight if it cooperates well enough on this trip—not that she would be willing to give it a choice otherwise.

“You’re ready for new job?” Grace asks, raising the slobbering thing to eye level. Snarling, it strains its chain in a fruitless attempt to bite a chunk of her nose, and Grace gives a little laugh. “I guess you are. Alright, handsome. Open up.” With her other hand she wiggles a long, golden strand akin to a worm on a hook, and the null hungrily locks its singular eye on the hair in an instant. _Someone’s eager…_ Grace is careful to keep her fingers away from many rows of needlelike teeth as it slurps up one of Simon’s hairs like a limp noodle. The effect is immediate. Either Simon is incredibly delicious, or the thing’s been kept away in that desk for far too long. The irritating hum stops, and the round little null drops down into a happy stupor after its meal. _Oh no you don’t…_

_Ping!_ Grace gives the null yet another sound whack along the side of its head. “No sleeping now, you’ve got a job to do. And if you find him, I’ll feed you lots more where that came from.” Grace doesn’t normally waste her time sweet talking nulls, but she’s done a lot of it today to real people, and old habits die hard. _And besides, when was the last time Simon cut his hair?_ The null opens one suspicious eye, questioning. For a long moment, it seems not quite convinced, but then it gives an inaudible sigh before the pupil of its eye narrows into a cat-like slit, and a familiar red light juts out of its socket. Grace makes sure to direct its eye anywhere other than her direction or that of the children— _no one present needs their retinas burned out today_ , she thinks—and watches as a line of crimson light twists in the air, completely unaffected by the howling winds of the train traveling though endless space, and darts forward into the distance, presumably towards its target.

Grace takes a second to observe the laser’s light as it curves out of sight. She exhales slowly and clips the orb onto a hook on the side of her fanny pack. Its laser never dims. _Good boy._ Maybe she’d feed it one of Simon’s socks next before they start to stink up her pack.

Her temporary goodbyes to the Apex are short and more tense than she prefers, her enthusiasm ringing as hollow as their halfhearted farewells in exchange. Grace could see the wheels turning in their minds—first one leader leaves, then the other. There must be some disagreement between them, but which one is at fault? _Where does that leave us?_

_What if they don’t come back?_

Swallowing down her uncertainties, Grace aims her harpoon hooks at the edge of the nearest train car and shoots. _She’s sorry, but she has to do this._ The teen feels the usual jolt in her wrists and arms and shoulders as the momentum caused by the firing of harpoon pack’s many invisible springs and gears takes control. She lands with one knee bent as she’s had a hundred times before, calf muscles straining, ready to propel her body forward. Grace Monroe is an athlete, and as she breaks out into full wonderful sprint across the car’s metal roof, she feels the weightlessness of muscles suddenly coming alive after resting idly for weeks. In that moment, her soul is light, and her smiles comes easy. The cooling sweat dotting her neck and forehead is welcome.

After a while, Grace settles into an easy rhythm: for every three cars she runs through, she flies above five more—one of the first, and final for the unfortunate, lessons a passenger learns is that the more time one spends hanging around outside cars, the greater the chance a ghom may show up—and all the while, the red light emitting from her side continuously projects somewhere out into the distance. Grace’s core and legs begin to burn, but the burn feels good. Her mind zones out into a comfortable world of muted grey, and she does not think about Simon, or nagging guilt over the Apex, or her ever increasing weariness as the hours without sleep begin to take their toll. Grace does not even count the number of train cars in total that she passes—she registers only the twisting red string of light leading her onwards and the hard thuds of her shoes against dirt or grass or rock or metal.

Eventually it is her stomach that finally forces her to stop for a break, and so Grace stops short and decides to make a quick dip into the nearest car. Entering an unknown car is always a gamble, usually inconvenient at best and life threatening at worst, but Grace is much more adept than the average train passenger. With one hand on the her hook, she uses the other to gently prop open the car’s door and peaks her head inside. _Standard Apex procedure_ … She hears these words in Simon’s voice.

“Hmm…” The teen closes the door behind her to enter what appears to be a gigantic classroom expanding infinitely in all directions. “So far so good…” At a glance, Grace is disoriented by the sheer scale of it before she gives herself a harsh mental shake and reminds herself of her objective. _Find exit first, exploration later_. Fortunately for Grace, she feels something shift against her hip, and she looks down to see the locator null pointing its light somewhere to the south, its terminus evidently the exit which she cannot spot from this distance. _Nice_ … She smiles. _That null is definitely going to earn itself a sock._

It is perhaps due to Grace’s many years on the train that she doesn’t pause to question the peculiar oddity of this car—she has seen too many cars to count and only a precious few that could be considered “normal”. Her main concern is that her current surroundings don’t seem very dangerous or annoying—after all, there is a car on this train comprised of nothing but ducks. _What purpose does that car even have, oh train?_ In Grace’s experience, most train cars appear to have no rhyme or reason. If she happens to step on the random pair of glasses or pass by a desk clearly sculpted out of jam, the teen doesn’t question it. She prepares her camp as she’s had a thousand times before near the exit doorway and chows down upon her unsatisfactory meal.

What she doesn’t expect is to find herself falling asleep afterwards, head bowed and arms crossed. When she opens her eyes again, she will wake up to discover that the null has chewed a fist-sized hole in her pants.

* * *

The more things change; the more they remain the same. Amelia Hughes never gets along with her bosses.

_“Amelia, dearie, don’t you think that’s a bit too radical?”_

_“That’s Amelia…Amelia Hughes—only bird in the office, y’know.”_

_“-knows what’s what, but a right pity about that attitude of hers…”_

_“I highly appreciate that you’re extremely motivated to do your job-!” “- **but I’m too busy right now to write the obituaries of one hundred and thirty two passengers, and well, that and I just don’t wanna** …”_

_Bollocks_. If anything, she’s made that little robot’s job easier. Such a large number of people escaping The Black Market Car all at once is going to cause his passenger mortality calculations to drop precipitously. _The more, the merrier, and all that jazz…_ Yet One nonetheless finds a reason to complain about how she does her job.

_Why didn’t she allow everyone to evacuate The Black Market Car and then eject it to quarantine? Oh merry me, yes, why not?_ Of course, she has time ample enough to scan over a hundred humans, denizens notwithstanding, _and_ their belongings. It’s not like she wants to leave this train before she turns ninety. _But no, Amelia! The robot says that’s wrong! For now on, you must give warning to any passenger inside a car before you quarantine it…_ Therefore, Amelia finds herself standing outside a nondescript train car, one sensor going haywire from the severity of anomalies contained within and another beeping intermittently warning her that there are multiple passengers inside. _Might as well get on with it…_

With both hands, Amelia grabs the handles and turns them to open the doors to the defective car. She recalls a time when it had taken hours for her to just lay her trembling palms upon a door, a time where she would turn her face to the icy steel and weep bitter tears. It is cruel to see an artificial remnant of a happy past now confirmed to be irretrievable, made hideous and distorted by the powers of the train—it is even crueler to know that it was she who had created them. And it is she who must deal with them. Now, after dispatching hundreds of cars containing effigies of her Alrick, of their college days, their shared messy flat, turtles…the pain fades into a faint dull point, a jagged mountain worn down into a barren, rocky hill over time. _Time to get it over with…_

Amelia pulls out a scrappy bit of paper. “Dear passengers,” she begins, her voice magnified hundreds of times greater than normal using a—frankly ingenious, if she were to say so herself— combination of her microphone and the natural programmable capabilities of the car itself. “By order of One, you are required to exit this car and not to return. Any puzzle in the process of completion or quests suggested by denizen is hereby nullified, and all doors are unlocked. If you have any questions or concerns, please drop a line within The Whiny Grievances Car. Have a lovely day… Woo, woo…” Here is where she pauses and allows the passenger, who is normally frightened out of his wits, to collect himself. Next she enters the car.

Amelia approaches each car using the same scientific method: observe, date, categorize, and record. _First, observe_. Amelia takes note of the rough wooden desks situated in neat, orderly rows. _Oh good, a throwback from college_ ; she doesn’t come across many of those anymore. This car must be quite old. At the very beginning of her reign as conductor, Amelia did not immediately leap into trying to recreate life. One must understand the fundamentals before one proceeds to more advanced concepts—and as a result she had begun experimenting with the replication of small things: a telephone, Alrick’s glasses, her childhood bedroom, her college physics lecture hall… There are no signs of any denizens native to this car, so it must indeed be one of her early creations.

_Observe_. Suddenly curious, Amelia walks a few meters in to where she can feel the seams of invisible panels meshing neatly together. After three decades, the process is second nature to her. Her hand presses forward, gently, as a panel becomes opaque and exposes a large black sphere. _Yes_ … Amelia removes it from its resting place and gives the dark orb a once over. _Yes, this one is indeed quite old._ Perhaps even older than the first patch she’d pushed through-

“Excuse me.”

Amelia nearly drops the orb. _Who on earth-?_

“That ball thing…” Amelia turns around to see- _Oh God, why?_ “I saw something like that once. It was a very long time ago.” Brown eyes look up questionably at her. “Do you…work for the Conductor?”

Amelia’s first thought is to look behind her in case the blond one is thinking of running her down again. _Children… For God’s sake, why her?_ _Really, Amelia, you should have expected it after stumbling across the stubbly one back in The Black Market Car—honestly, you do_ not _need two teenagers stalking you right now…_ Amelia sighs and presses two fingers to her forehead in a futile attempt to calm herself. “Look. I have neither the time nor the patience to play along with whatever game you and your little boyfriend have come up with. This car will eject itself into quarantine within one hour. You have your warning so be done with it.”

She watches as the girl’s— _Grace?_ If were not for Hazel’s inconsistent babbling, Amelia would have never remembered the name at all—Grace's face flushes dark with anger, and then confusion. It’s not the reaction that Amelia expects, but hey, people are all different. If they were both “normal”, neither would be present on this hellhole of a train.

“ _Not my boyfriend_ …” Grace mutters under her breath, but then her voice rises, “But…you know Simon?”

_Know him? Never in a mill_ \- Before Amelia unleashes the most sarcastic response she has thus far made in the last three days, something about the girl’s expression stills her tongue. _Grace. She’s serious._ Amelia Hughes may not be a trained detective or a policeman and may have spent the last thirty years as a partial hermit confined within the engine of a supernatural train tinkering on her own personal Frankenstein experiment, yet she does remember much about human emotion. _She, at one time, had been young_. She could imagine Grace as somewhat of an actress, but the teenager is not _that_ good.

“Grace-” The girl reels back when Amelia utters her name. “-that _is_ your name, if I’m not mistaken? What has happened to you?” It’s not that Amelia is concerned about Grace, not really. But she is intrigued, and, well, sharing tidings about her former traveling companions might be good for Hazel whenever Amelia has the opportunity to return to her _other_ experiments. Grace herself appears taken aback for a second, before she steadies herself with another question. _A good offensive is the best defense_ , Amelia supposes.

“Are you Cecilia?”

There is a short, but awkward silence before Amelia very nearly laughs. No, the older woman trembles for a long second before bursting into full guffaws. _Cecilia? Cecilia! How rich!_

“I only asked you a question. Look, lady, do you work for the Conductor or not?”

Amelia wipes tears from her eyes. “Oh ho! I-I must admit to you that that is the first real laugh I’ve had all week. _Cecilia_ … My mother would be highly insulted if she overheard this conversation, you know. But yes, I’ll answer your question. Yes, I do work for the conductor. You must have lost your hearing along with your memory; I did say that I have come here under One’s authority and all-”

“One..? One..” Grace begins to back away, eyes wide. “You work for the robot, the False Conductor?”

_Oh, for Pete’s sake_ … “Are you children still on this False Conductor nonsense? Is this a joke?” However Grace is already backing away slowly towards the exit, her attention split between Amelia and making sure that there is a clear path behind her as if Amelia herself is a hungry tiger on the prowl that must be watched. _Jesus, she now prefers Shortpants to Mistress Wet Blanket here._

“Look, my name is Amelia, genius. And I have to say I’m a tad disappointed in you, running away without inquiring about your little friend Hazel. You should be happy to know-”

Few things have the power to stop Amelia Hughes mid speech, but the sight of Grace Monroe dropping like a stone is one of them. Amelia’s old heart skips a beat before she finds herself running. _Wait, why is she running?_ She hears the clacking of numbers recalculating, and her mind stops wondering entirely. _And what can she do exactly? She’s not a medic!_

Still, Amelia figures that she knows enough. Carefully, she rolls Grace over to her side and-

_Beep! Beep!_

_Ugh!_ Amelia nearly screams. _Too much! Too much activity is going on all at once!_

“What now?” she moans with impatience as she pulls out a small monitor from her front pocket and stares. _Another irregularity? Twenty cars down?_ But she had just come from that direction! _How could it be possible-?_ Amelia looks down at Grace and then at her tracker. _Decisions, decisions_ … Amelia sighs.

_Children..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter refers to the legend of the Red Thread of Fate. Here, Grace literally uses it to track down Simon. I suppose the question is does he also see it? 
> 
> Also, enter more Amelia because we cannot have enough Amelia. The poor thing is confused, and I don't think that happens very often. 
> 
> One of the most egregious parts of this entire story is the realization that due to the memory wipe, Grace's entire arc of growth during season three has almost been wiped clean. The operative word being, almost... The next few chapters shall be a hoot.


	9. To Catch A Bigger Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon does a big think; unfortunately it doesn't involve realizing that the women in his life are a bit too domineering for his own good. Meanwhile Grace is catching up to the situation at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes more French phrases. As always translations are below in end notes.  
> Also, this is a flashback heavy chapter. Let me know if there's anything to clear up.

_“Just how far are you willing to go to save Grace?”_

Simon fights to control his breathing. It’s stupid. There’s no way the figure below could hear him over the roar of the train, and yet he lies as flatly as possible against the cold metal roof of the car and anxiously bites his bottom lip. Simon watches as Amelia Hughes emerges from the car below him, clearly irritated, and one hand massaging the curve of her lower back.

_Is she really going to fall for it?_

* * *

HOURS BEFORE...

* * *

“I must warn you, _mon cher_ , that this plan may not work.” Samantha’s yellow eyes are upon Simon, but Simon’s focus lies solely on the mysterious box resting innocently on his lap. This is the second time he has found himself in the Cat’s lair and is presented with a mysterious object she claims will help. If he accepts the Cat’s help—if he goes through with this—Simon has to be certain this won’t be a repeat of last time. His traitorous mind bombards him with flashbacks consisting of himself, the Cat, the fire… ‘ _You’re going to help me!’ ‘Grace is not acting like she_ _should!_ ’ Simon would laugh if he isn’t so sure that he would cry.

_‘She isn’t one of your miniatures, Simon.’_

“Then how are you even sure that it’ll work at all?” he exclaims. His face is haunted.

Samantha’s eyes narrow; she gives him a toothy grin. “What if I told you there is a car on this train which only purpose is to store memories?”

“I’d ask why I’ve never heard of it,” Simon answers.

“ _Mais oui_ , I suppose you haven’t…” The retort hangs heavily like a noxious cloud, and she smirks— _For a person who has spent such a long time on the train, you don’t know very much at all, do you?_ Simon’s knuckles go white as short, jagged nails dig into calloused palms, yet she appears not to notice. “That’s not surprising. The Tape Car is always located at or near the front of the train, and this train is very, very long. By probability alone and ah… past _incidents_ … I doubt many passengers are deposited so close to the front of the train. You won’t remember it, Simon, but even you were once inside The Tape Car when you first boarded. That is where the train evaluates your past and assigns you a number-”

“Wait! What?” The blond gazes at the glowing numbers covering his bicep and forearm. “But how does it-?” He and Grace know that the train must assign numbers somehow, _but how does it monitor them all? Do numbers recalculate there and are then recorded on the passenger? Could this be manipulated in some way?_ So many questions pile up in his innermost thoughts…

“None of that,” Samantha holds up a paw. “I know the direction in which your mind is heading, and I’m afraid that there are some explanations even I cannot begin to clarify. _Écoute-moi!_ You believe that the Powers-That-Be routinely let an _ingénue_ like myself in the know concerning something as important as that?”

In spite of the flattened ears, the paw held dramatically over one eye, the Cat is calm, too calm. Simon is certain that the Cat would never admit not knowing something and would be absolutely sour if she were forced to do so. She’s lying; she’s hiding something—or someone. She forgets that her present audience knows her much more intimately than her usual one, but this time Simon bites his tongue before the urge to explode becomes overpowering. _Past Simon had been too impatient, and he, but more importantly Grace, are paying the price for it._ This time Simon will push himself to become a little cleverer, a bit more composed. He is evolving.

“Then what do you know?” Simon crosses his arms as his gaze returns to the Cat.

“You’re a smart boy, think a little. If every passenger has his number assigned and monitored from within The Tape Car, then this would obviously include Grace as well. If one were to walk in and, oh say, relieve the car of Grace’s tape…” Her voice trails off in an offhanded manner, and Simon immediately picks up on the implication, suddenly excited.

“-and-and if she were to watch it…” He leaps out of his chair. “Grace could replace her lost memories with exact copies of her old ones…” The blond looks at the Cat. “…right?”

“That _is_ the idea. Of course, I have no idea whether it will succeed or not, but it would be very interesting to observe…” She ignores a nasty glare from the blond.

“Grace isn’t some kind of lab experiment. She is my friend! If you even think that-”

“Ah, _il n’y a pas plus sourd que celui ne veut pas entendre_ …” Samantha sighs, “What do you want me to say, Simon?”

_Say that you’re telling me the truth, that you’re sorry for abandoning me to my death all those years ago, that you recognize you never taught me anything about the train and yet you dare allow yourself to become so preachy about how the train works all these years later… Tell me why you pretended to care about me. Admit that you only feel guilty because I am alive…_ A dozen thoughts long since grown old and bitter and poisonous rise up to paralyze his throat, but Simon does not heed. Not this time.

“Say that you don’t have any nefarious plans in your so-called ‘helping’,” Simon replies. “Say that you won’t treat Grace like a lab rat.”

There is a brief silence between the two before the Cat relents with a short, but delicate bow. “As you wish… A pox upon my whiskers, no, I won’t treat your friend like a lab rat, but you can’t fault my interest in this subject. It isn’t nefarious, quite the opposite, really. To think…” she pauses, eyes widening in barely suppressed elation. “Instead of information flowing from passenger to train, we’re proposing the reverse! Such a scheme! Such stakes!”

Simon isn’t moved by such stakes, but he realizes interrogating Samantha further isn’t going to help him in the long run. “Okay… So let’s say you’ve convinced me; why don’t we head for this Tape Car right now? We’re wasting time as it is just standing around and talking at each other.”

The Cat laughs. “Oh, you silly boy… Such eagerness…” she smiles, and Simon has the sinking feeling that although this Tape Car solution sounds both miraculous and fantastical, Samantha is still sitting on a massive buried lede. “By rough, and I mean very rough, estimation, I believe The Tape Car is approximately five million, three hundred and eighty-two thousand, five hundred and sixty-one cars away; give or take a few. My hovercraft has a function installed that allows me to know these things, though I suppose I’ll have to learn to live without given that it’s most likely still in The Black Market Car. Hmm…” A pause. “At a fair pace, given the advantage of using your equipment, I daresay it would take you almost a year to reach your destination, barring no distractions of course…”

“A-a year?” Simon feels his face paling as all of the blood rushes from his head to settle uncomfortably somewhere behind his ribcage. “But-”

“Tut, tut, you’re fretting, _mon cher_. Never worry when I am here to help you.” Those yellow eyes grow bright. And here is when Simon knows that the Cat will make her move. Internally he prepares himself for the impact. “You see, I know a faster way to transverse the train compared to your harpoons, and in the process you and I might somewhat settle a score with an old enemy we both share…”

* * *

THE PRESENT

* * *

As soon as Amelia disappears behind the door of the next car, Simon wastes no time springing into action. He throws himself over the side of the roof without thinking, his harpoon hooks already deployed and reeling him forward. However long the old lady will be distracted by his ruse, Simon doesn’t know, but he must reach his pre-planned destination before she suspects anything…

A certain grubby cardboard box weighs heavily in his pocket.

* * *

HOURS BEFORE

* * *

“This?” Simon asks, rattling the small box with his left hand.

“ _Parbleu!_ Careful! Careful!” The Cat is upon him in an instant, one paw resting forcefully on his forearm. “You have no idea of the trouble I’ve gone through to collect the contents inside of this box. If it opens even once before the right moment, everything will be ruined.”

“Okay…” Simon breathes slowly. “Jeez, what is inside of this thing? I mean, it’s not going to kill her or something, right?” He doesn’t like Amelia, but she is a human being at the very least. It doesn’t feel right to harm real people.

Samantha stares intensely at that small, brown box. “Kill her? No… Provide her with a well needed dose of humility?” She laughs. “Ah, Simon, why else did I take the time to tell you about that old parable **Belling the Cat**?”

* * *

THE PRESENT

* * *

_The Duck Car, just great…_ Trying not to choke on an excess of warm white feathers, Simon’s forefinger flips open the lid of the box and pulls out a faded handkerchief that is for some strange reason screen printed with various cartoony looking turtles. _What exactly is Amelia’s deal with turtles?_

_"Somewhere,_ mon cher _, on Amelia’s person, is a device. She uses it to control cars."_

Hurriedly he tosses the handkerchief over his head—and more than a few curious ducks make a dive for it—and does his best to swim through the mass of warm bodies towards the exit. _Is it true that birds are incapable of holding their own excrement?_ Simon remembers stumbling across the subject years back in childhood, but right now he cannot recall the answer. The implication of the unknown makes him move faster.

_"I’ve gone through many lengths to acquire the items within that box, though I suppose I never considered I would find a use for it. We’ve had our clashes over the years, but I’d figured it was best to wait her out—Amelia is quite old, for a human…"_

_"One part of Amelia’s rehabilitation—if you’d call it_ rehabilitation _—is to clean up all the damage she’s done. She’s attracted to things like these. If you leave each one within a different train car and lure her to the third, well… ….we’d have a chance to lay hands on her sound wave. With that, we could traverse the train in hours, why, we could stop by The Mall Car and gather Grace and enter The Tape Car in under a day…"_

Simon doesn’t have much time. There is a chance that Amelia would investigate the first bit of contraband he had dropped— _some sort of gradation photo?_ —but there is also the possibility that she’d simply sent that entire first car into quarantine. On the detection of the second one, she’s bound to be suspicious. Amelia would want to hunt exactly who—or what—is spreading around irregularities that she had created, and is supposed to be quarantining away from the rest of the train. She would want to investigate…like Hazel…

The Cat expects Simon to behave like a good messenger boy, as he had been once upon a time, and return obediently with Amelia’s sound wave. Simon, however, has a different idea. It wouldn’t hurt if he were to figure out how to operate Amelia’s device on his lonesome, right? He would make a detour to The Mall Car and pick up a few Apex along with Grace.

Samantha is plotting something—whether it will be a positive or negative consequence for them is unknown—but perhaps the execution may be a bit harder with thirty armed children around. He’d tell Grace everything then—the awesome potential of The Tape Car alone would make sure she doesn’t kill him outright, or at least not too soon. They have had their arguments before, but they had always come around. Grace Monroe and Simon Laurent are a pair and will always be one. Grace will be upset, but she would understand, eventually. In the depths of her soul, she wouldn’t be able to picture herself parted from him—like he could never imagine himself without Grace.

Simon is barely able to exit The Duck Car before the door on the opposite end of the car opens.

* * *

Grace’s eyelids flutter open briefly before she shuts them again. Gradually she is welcomed back, or rather metaphorically dragged, into the land of the living. A cool breeze blows gently across her face, and Grace breathes in the faint hint of wildflowers nearby. Her first thought is that it’s all so peaceful. Her second is that the last thing she remembers is leaving The Mall Car, and she suddenly feels the urge to vomit. For the first time in long, long time, Grace allows herself to cry.

_That was a really stupid thing to do, Grace…going it alone…_ Her mind makes a futile attempt to rouse any memory of walking into this car, but Grace already knows that she won’t be able to. Similar to her waking up on the floor of the food court, there is a supermassive black hole of nothing from her saying goodbye to the Apex to her awakening in the midst of this tranquil meadow. _Fuck_.

Slowly, Grace exhales and tries to relax and deftly skims her fingers over herself to check to see if everything is still in order. _Nose, check. Shoulders, check. Elbows, check…_ The train devours the weak. _Knees seem to be okay…_ The train can be a hostile environment occasionally, but it’s been so long since Grace herself has been thoroughly touched by fear that her current apprehensiveness feels foreign. Grace is not weak, yet consequently she recognizes that strength sometimes doesn’t matter to the train. All it takes is one slip up, and—sucks to be you—you’re falling off into the wasteland, sucked into a bottomless pit, infected by millions of sentient parasites, waking up in mysterious cars you have no memory of entering…

There is a crisp white and neatly folded note pinned onto her shirt fluttering stiffly in the breeze. Grace rips it off.

Shakily, she stands to her feet and shoves that note into a pocket. Judging by her waking up alone, her mysterious savior isn’t Apex. Grace is surprised that her savior hadn’t hung around to see her awaken, but then again, people are strange creatures. The teen decides if she ever meets her Good Samaritan again, she’ll acknowledge she owes him one. Meetings between passengers on the train are like ships passing in the night, yet at the very least she could promise a hot meal and forbid the kids from rummaging through their stuff. _First thing’s first though_ … Grace unhooks the locator null from her pack and gives it a shake.

Grace Monroe is a doer and a survivor, and all extraneous thought is pushed aside from the task at hand. Right now she preoccupies herself with feeding the null Simon’s final sock—which in turn will lead her to Simon, who still possesses his number tracker—hopefully, for his sake he does—, which in turn will lead them back to the Apex, which in turn will lead her straight to bed where she anticipates to sleep this all off like a bad hangover. Note reading and best friend questioning and best friend murdering shall all come later, when Grace is fresh and ready rule her world once again.

“What the-?” Grace definitely isn’t ready for the null’s red light to point upwards almost perpendicularly into the air and disappear into faded blue skies. _Holy shit!_ Her legs began to move before her mind contemplates her next thought. _How on earth did he get that close? How far away was he to begin with?_ The string of light moves easterly, and all at once Grace remembers a physical truth about train cars. Cars are nearly always larger inside than they are out; she’d never catch Simon on foot if he is at that moment running along the roof. Nevertheless, she races on past endless empty fields of wildflowers; she has no option not to try.

When Grace bursts through the exit like a creature gone mad, her face is tilted upwards to catch the familiar blur of khaki and white. _Wait, would he even be wearing those ridiculous pants still?_ Grace hates the fact that she cannot say for certain—Simon had changed so quickly recently. For all she knows, Grace might look up to spot him wearing a clown costume.

“Well, there’s no time like the present to find out…” Grace mumbles under her breath. Standing here will grant her nothing, and there is a good chance she will spy his retreating figure if she climbs onto the roof. She grasps both handles of her harpoon hooks and shoots off a quick prayer to the Conductor that her aim will be true. Grace aims them forward and shoots and-

_Shlink! Crash!_

Grace watches on in stunned silence as her right hook collides with another. A rush of adrenaline causes the scene to play out in slow motion; at the sight of his left hook knocked awry, Simon is too stunned to react. His face looks down to meet hers, eyes wide, and Grace witnesses him mouth a single word in pure astonishment. _Grace_ …

_Simon_.

And in the span of a heartbeat time speeds up again, and he is already past her. Grace dodges just in time to avoid her falling hooks that had been pushed off course by Simon’s passage, and she dives onto the bridge between cars, her back striking against the handrail. Simon, however, is not so fortunate. He slams side-first into the wall of the next car and slides down, having only one harpoon successfully been planted onto the wall.

In another heartbeat and once again, Grace races towards him before she can think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations are as follows:
> 
> mon cher = 'my dear'  
> mais oui = 'indeed'  
> écoute-moi! = 'listen to me!'  
> il n’y a pas plus sourd que celui ne veut pas entendre = 'there is no one as deaf as the person who doesn't want to listen'  
> Parbleu = 'by God (Jove)!'  
> ingénue = an innocent, kind, and sweet young girl (hint, hint, this ain't the Cat)
> 
> If you have any questions or corrections for better translations, feel free to comment, and I will add them!
> 
> And yes! Grace and Simon meet again! I've been waiting for weeks to post this... I hope you all enjoy!


	10. Midnight in the Palace of Cupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, an open flame approaches an innocent can of gasoline.  
> And Grace is still very, very sus. 
> 
> Alternatively, this chapter can be called "Grace and Simon."

_It only takes a few short months for young Grace to become accustomed to Simon Laurent. The start of their relationship is uneventful, fateful encounter with the ghom aside. Grace is an only child who is used to spending large amounts of time alone, much to her chagrin, and Simon sticks to his impromptu savior like glue, a discovery in which Grace finds both delightful and annoying—delightful, by the fact that the boy seems to view her almost from a position of reverence and rarely questions anything she says; and annoying, by the fact that he seems to be extremely adverse to being by himself._

_At first, Simon’s company is cool water. Grace, who hadn’t realized the extent of how much she had missed speaking to another person in months, guzzles it down like a man dying of thirst. After two weeks of satisfying her very neglected need for social interaction, however, she notices with growing irritation that he is a bit of a wet blanket. And he’s been dragging his feet while traversing the last few cars, and Grace highly suspects why._

_“I don’t think that cat is coming back, you know.” The words slide out more bluntly than she intends—as of then Grace possesses only a sliver of the manipulation skills which are to come—but she is trying her best to be sympathetic all the while staving off her annoyance at his walking behind her as slowly as he possibly can. It’s not that she has anywhere to go; it’s just that she likes to explore as much of the train as she can as quickly as possible._

_Simon nods his head well enough, but his eyes are still watering. Grace sighs._

_“Okay, we left that car in the same direction as she did. Maybe we will come across her if we walk faster?” Internally Grace shrugs._ It’s worth a shot _._

_He shoots her a look. “I’m not a baby… You don’t have to tell a lie to make me feel better. Samantha’s not coming back, I know that. It’s just…”_

_“Just?” She raises an eyebrow._

_“I thought we were friends…” The despondent expression on his boyish face causes Grace to think. She would be sore, too, if her friends abandoned her—not that Grace had many real friends before the train._

_“Well…you and I are friends, right?” Grace replies with a smile. Of course they are. If Simon didn’t like her, he wouldn’t tag along with her, and saving him from that scary cockroach thing has got to mean something. To her surprise, however, Simon looks doubtful._ And how do I know you won’t leave me behind too? _It’s written all too plainly across his face. To someone older, this would be quite understandable—Simon, who has known the Cat for months before her abandonment, would be rather gun-shy to place his full trust in Grace, a girl whom he has known for all of two weeks._

_Grace, however, is ten years old, and right now she feels very affronted that the kid whose life she’s recently saved now tells her he doesn’t trust her. She becomes upset._

_“Why did you ever expect you could be friends with a cat anyway?” Grace snaps._

_Simon is taken aback. “Huh?”_

_“I mean, haven’t you ever owned a cat before?” In truth Grace does not and has never owned or been allowed a cat, or any pet, really, but she recalls overhearing her instructor complain many, many times about her “demonic fur ball of claws and destruction”. To Grace, owning a cat seems like a huge waste of time and effort. It must be even weirder to be friends with one._

_Simon pauses, and Grace can tell he is considering something. He is thinking very, very hard. “My mom did…once.”_

_“And how was it?” Grace asks._

_“So-so, I guess. It wasn’t_ my _cat.”_

_“But it was your mom’s. Was it nice to your mom then?”_

_To her surprise once again, Simon starts laughing. He is laughing so hard that tears appear in his eyes again, but for an entirely different reason. “Oh no! It threw up in her shoes one time. She hated it. It totally clawed all of the furniture too. And it scratched my Uncle Julien pretty bad-”_

_By the time Grace interrupts, she is laughing too. “You see, if cats are like that, how did you expect to be friends? Forget cats!”_

_“Yeah,” Simon blinks, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Forget cats.”_

* * *

Simon is already cutting through his compromised line by the time Grace reaches him. It’s the best move he can make in this situation; a damaged harpoon pack can be deadly, and the way Simon’s free hook stretches beyond him, bouncing and scraping hideously along the side of the next car, doesn’t inspire faith that he’d be able to reel back it in in either one of them.

He peers down at Grace, the side of his face already purpling, and his eyes give her that gaze she knows so well. _If I cut both lines, you think you can catch me?_ At present is a dangerous situation; therefore, Simon Laurent must spoil the mood with a corny joke. Simon’s mouth twists upward in a grin, one that Grace mirrors before she can stop herself.

_Five years ago, maybe_ , her smirk insinuates. _Maybe I would volunteer and try to catch you and take that chance at breaking both legs in the process. But you’re bigger than me, and I’m mad at you so not a chance._

Simon laughs, though Grace is barely able to hear his voice above the wind. Their banter is a behavior so habitual between them throughout the years that he can discern the connotation behind that smirk. She’s admonishing him for his clumsiness, as usual.

_Oh really?_ he shoots back, and for a second Grace forgets that she is angry at him. The situation all at once feels like another raid that has suddenly developed a kink in the normal routine, and Grace is as usual saving Simon’s skin from the fire—but only for a second—because in the next he is looking past her as if expecting to see many more faces.

“Where is everybody?” yells Simon as the rope finally snaps with a silent _swish!_ , and both teenagers wince at the din of Simon’s free hook scouring the side of the car before falling out of sight into the wastes. Grace shakes her head. She barely spots a rising cloud of dust from this distance, but even that is enough.

“Not here! Now come on before we wake up some unwanted company!”

_The ghoms_. Simon frowns, but he does as she commands and quickly rappels himself down the face of the car before dropping onto the platform in front of her. “What’s goin-?” he begins, but Grace is already dragging him towards the doorway of the next car. He doesn’t protest, even at the fact that she is absolutely yanking his arm harder than necessary, and Grace almost wishes he would.

His abrupt change in dress, the weird writings, that strange Cecilia person whom he shouldn’t know at all—it’s all too bizarre a change from the predictable Simon she had grown up alongside. Grace expects him to look guilty or explode into a confession promptly upon seeing her—Simon is not the type who is able to hide things for long—but no, he seizes hold of the right door handle when her hands latch on to the left. _Like they have done a hundred times before…_ Something hard rises behind her windpipe and threatens to choke. Together they turn the infinity handles before any ghom realizes there may be a possible snack waiting for it outside.

A pause.

“Wow.” It’s unclear which one of the pair speaks out loud.

The car before them is filled with bubbles, bright soapy bubbles of all shapes and sizes. It’s sky is a pale blue comparable a bright winter’s morning, though magnified and distorted by millions of semi-transparent bubbles hanging suspended in midair. The ground consists of nothing but endless dunes of shifting red sands.

“Um…” Grace pops one with her pinkie finger.

“You think this is a puzzle car?” Simon whispers.

“I’m not sure… But hey, only one way to find out, right?” The teen steps forward, feeling the gentle wisps of countless bubbles bursting as she goes.

“I guess…” Simon mutters sarcastically to himself as he walks forward to trail behind her lead. “It’s not like I wanted to get cold and wet today or anything…”

“Well-” Grace begins, but stops herself. _Well it wouldn’t hurt if you’d got a bath_. That statement is one what she could have said three days ago, a month ago, three years ago to a Simon who would roll his eyes and scoff and croak something equally nettling about her. _Damn she’s missed him._ But it’s obvious he’s hiding something quite large because the hole in the sequence of events of days past in Grace’s head is so undeniable that even the most oblivious passenger could figure it out. Until she knows, she can’t get comfortable around him. _How dare he behave like his old self—the Simon who doesn’t sneak out behind his best friend’s back in her darkest hour, the Simon she’s known since childhood._

“Well, what?” Grace nearly shivers out of surprise—Simon has caught up alongside her.

_Well, what Grace?_ “Well…” _Damn it, think!_ The lack of sleep and all of the blackouts are both wreaking havoc on her normally world-class cognitive ability. “…you still have your number tracker, don’t you? Before we go any further and forget the location of the door we came in from, we should confirm we’re going in the right direction.” _Assuming you were heading towards the Apex, that is…_

“That’s…” Simon pauses; his eyes widen. “That’s a good point.” He digs into his pocket and pulls out his tracker, fumbling in a manner that is completely and earnestly so _Simon_ that Grace is caught off-guard. _Could this really be the same person possibly responsible for her condition?_ After eight years together, Grace can hardly process it. It all has to be some gloriously stupid misunderstanding, or Simon had done something silly and was trying—and predictably failing—to hide the consequences from her. Simon is her number two, her most dependable person—she trusts him with things that she’d never tell another soul. It has to be some big dumb mistake…

Simon’s thumb slides across the green screen, and his attention is so focused upon it that he doesn’t notice Grace watching his movements as well.

“We are heading the right way, actually.” Simon cracks a smile. “The Apex is fifty-five cars due south. We’ll make it there after a couple of days of walking I guess. Heh… Sorry about losing my gear…” He sounds genuinely apologetic.

_Fuck_.

“Yeah, it’s no problem, Si...” His fingers are quick, but Grace notices a discrepancy anyway. There is indeed a large cluster of numbers up ahead which is presumably the Apex, but Grace spots another—and this number which must be fifty times larger than she’d ever seen before judging by the size of that glowing green circle. It’s somewhere behind them, but close, very, very close… And Simon must have seen, and yet he doesn’t mention it at all. _Fuck_ … He is deliberately hiding something from her. This is her best friend—the only one, she realizes now, she would truly miss if he’d ever left the train. And for the second time that day, Grace Monroe feels hot tears prick the corners of her eyes.

Grace could murder him. She would bash common sense right back into him. She could actually cry. Instead, she turns around and hugs him.

“Grace…?” Initially, Simon doesn’t know how to react, and then, as if swiftly realizing the opportunity which lay before him, he quickly embraces her as well.

_What is she doing?_ Grace never acts out her emotions—she has known for a while that Simon had this funny little thing for her. It’s somewhat cute, and pretty flattering, and quite useful at times, but it would be extremely awkward if she emboldens that type of behavior in front of the Apex. The ego boost is terrific if Grace chooses to ignore that she is possibly the only romantic option he has. _Or is she? There is a Cecilia now, after all…_

“Grace?”

Grace’s original plan is to wait until they arrive back in The Mall Car before she confronts Simon with her suspicions. But the situation has changed… Simon doesn’t have a pack now. If she uses that as leverage, perhaps she could… _Damn it, to think like this about Simon, plotting against him similarly akin to their pre-raid preparation talks before they storm a new car, it feels wrong. Then again, isn’t Simon the one who has changed first?_ As if on instinct Grace reaches for the ever-present ponytail—she had pulled it many times before to achieve a reaction, and that action had always struck gold—only to find loose locks of hair. _Oh, right. He’s not wearing that hairstyle anymore_.

Simon, ever sensitive to Grace’s fingers around that particular area, seizes up before breaking his hold and backing away; his face is burning red and… “Grace, what are you doing?”

_Wait_. He broke her hug; Simon Laurent willingly and purposefully broke her hug. _What the hell?!_

“What is your problem?” Grace doesn’t intend for those words to fly out of her mouth so hotly—no, her pride has _not_ been dented by this—but whatever… What’s done is done. She’s going to find out just who is this stranger who now lives beneath the skin of her best friend.

Simon’s face is still cherry red. “W-what are you talking about? I mean, you just sorta grabbed me, and n-not that I hated it-”

“I didn’t mean that, Simon, and you know it. What I’m referring to is your running out on the Apex, on me, when I needed you the most. And you promised.” In Grace’s experience, sometimes wounding first is more satisfying than aiming straight for the jugular. And at that moment it is pleasing to watch Simon squirm. “Well?”

“Look, Grace…” Simon shrinks back a little upon himself. “I know you’re upset-”

“Really?” Grace prefers the word “ _livid_ ” personally, or even “ _incensed_ ”. Her parents would be happy to know she’s increased her vocabulary.

“I’m still going to tell you everything like I promised, it’s just…” He looks over his shoulder as if expecting someone to burst through The Bubble Car’s door at any moment. “We really don’t have time right now-”

“Oh.” Grace blinks in mock surprise. “Okay.” Her voice is calm, implausibly calm. “And why is that?”

But Grace forgets that Simon has a temper to match hers, and unlike Grace, Simon seldom feels the need to hide it. “ _Because_ …” he groans. “There’s someone coming, and it’d be catastrophic if she finds us. Look, Grace, I swear by the Conductor that I’ll tell you everything when we get back home-”

“Someone, hmm?” Like a spider with a fly, she carefully tests the web. “And I guess this… _someone_ …has a really, really high number?”

The expressions which flash across Simon’s face in rapid succession are incredible to witness—firstly disbelief, then outright suspicion, then anger, and then it ultimately settles into something resembling resentment. Grace remembers seeing this face many times—mainly after Simon interacts with nulls—but never before towards her. Frankly, it’s unnerving.

“Yeah,” Simon says softly. There is a sudden change in his demeanor, but Grace does not completely comprehend why—it disturbs her more that she cannot. _She’s known him even before his voice broke, dammit._ “You’re right.” His blue eyes are hard.

“Simon…” Grace sighs. “Come on…” _Just tell me. Jeez…_

“Goodbye, Grace. I’ll see you back in The Mall Car.” And, incredibly, incredibly, Simon turns around and walks away. For a moment, Grace stands there, stunned, alone in the midst of a million wobbling bubbles.

“Ugh, wait! Simon!”

“ _No_.” Simon doesn’t turn around.

_Is he really going to act like a child right now?_ “You don’t have a working pack, Simon! Are you really going to travel the train by yourself?” With his luck, he’ll fall into the first bottomless pit he encounters.

“You’re doing it!” he yells back. “I don’t see the rest of the Apex hanging around. Besides, I seem to recall spending years getting across the train without using harpoons. I’ll be just fine!”

In that instant watching his retreating back, Grace Monroe has a moment of clarity. Simon can be a stubborn asshole sometimes, it is known, and it doesn’t matter how long she’s willing to argue if he has made up his mind anyway. She has plenty of ammunition to spare—his writings, his whereabouts the last forty eight hours, the Emilia person—even admitting out loud that she’s broken into his room is nuke worthy—but Grace doesn’t want to release that nuke, at least not yet, not until she is certain that he will remain by her side when she does. It doesn’t matter if he could be crazy or he’s somehow blown up half the train—all of that can be hashed out later. First she needs to get him home.

Grace changes tactics.

“Come on, Si, we both know you’re going to trip over yourself and fall off the next platform without a pack.” She begins to unbuckle her harpoon gear. “Have mine if you really have to leave in a hurry.”

Simon stops walking. He blinks in confusion. “Grace… What…? What are you doing?” He appears as if rooted to the sand as Grace saunters up to him, harpoon pack in hand. She smirks. _Close your mouth, Simon, you look like a fish._

“Acknowledging that you need this more than me apparently. Here.” She shoves her gear onto his chest. “I’m helping.”

“No, no…” He turns his face away, flushing pink. “I can’t take this.”

“Take it!”

“I can’t. Y-you don’t understand…”

But yes, Grace does understand. Simon will never accept her gear as it could mean potentially dooming her to some grisly fate on the train. He would never forgive himself, if that happened. Her smirk softens into a smile. She supposes that there is some trace of her Simon down deep in there after all.

“Simon…” She’s curious. She leans closer. Grace wonders how just how much of him is unchanged.

“Grace!”

She kisses him. And Simon freezes— _predictably_ , how lovely—and Grace takes this advantage to press her lips harder against his. The rolling heat radiating from Simon’s body is delectably warm, and his lips are soft. Grace is at once assaulted by the familiar mix of cologne and old paints and something subtle but inexplicably Simon—and also a whiff of fresh sweat—but she’d forgive him for that, just this once. _This is nice; it’s been a while since she’s last tried this with him_.

The kiss doesn’t last longer than a few moments, just enough to gauge his reaction, and surely enough when she pulls away Simon is staring at her in some dazed wonder. Grace is confident that whatever he’s thinking about, it is _not_ that stranger with the incredibly high number. She is patient enough to wait the full minute required for Simon to find his voice again.

He breathes, heavily. “Grace, please…” _Don’t let this be a joke_. There is something about the way those big doe eyes rest upon her… If things had started out as joke, they certainly won’t be ending as one.

“Simon.” Her expression is one of mock sternness. “Shut up…”

Her lips capture his, and Grace discovers that things are better the second time around when one’s partner reciprocates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's eating Simon Laurent? 
> 
> If Grace was in The Chrome Car, maybe she'd find out. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed the chapter. Hopefully these two can get themselves together before the train throws another whammy in their general direction. I'm crossing my fingers...


End file.
